


Johnlock Advent Calendar of Fics

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AUs, Addiction, Alcoholism, Angst, Drabble, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, One-Shots, PTSD, Reichenbach Fall, Schmoop, Tags to be added, Teenlock, alphabet fic, canon-divergence, fluff/angst alternates, marriage (ish), post-reich, proposal, some established relationship, trigger: drug addiction, weird and inconsistent formatting sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:12:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 30,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Johnlock fic a day until Christmas, each day for a letter of the alphabet (Day 1=A). 2 will be released on Christmas Day.</p><p>(There's 27 because I screwed up and published two Ms.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A- Accent

Sherlock often wondered if John could speak any of the languages spoken in Afghanistan. He supposed he could just as John, but there was something about the mystery that appealed to him. It was almost as though, in the darkest reaches of his mind, he didn’t want to know if John couldn’t, because it was so much more fun to believe that he could. Imagining him speaking a strange dialect to children in the towns he had to go through in his uniform was a mesmerizing daydream, and Sherlock hoped so much that it was true that he planned never to ask.

 

John knew that Sherlock could speak a number of foreign languages. He knew that Mycroft could too, and he knew that they could both learn them in a matter of hours. He hadn’t heard either of them speak much of any of their foreign vocabularies, even when they were in foreign countries. Sherlock might speak briskly in French or German or Italian when there was a case there, but quickly and infrequently, like it was a hassle. John wished he would speak the languages more often, especially French. English was clunky and irregular, even British English. Sherlock’s deep voice sounded so musical while pronouncing French’s looping syllables. So it wasn’t a surprise to him when his first thought, instead of finding an electronic translator, was to ask Sherlock when he came across a French phrase in his book.

 

He was sitting in his chair at the time of this event, and Sherlock was experimenting at the kitchen table.

“Sherlock?” John asked, mostly to get his attention.

Sherlock didn’t respond, so John got up with his book and went over to him.

“How do you pronounce this?” he asked, pointing to the phrase in the book.

“Il y a quelque chose qui cloche,” Sherlock said, smoothly and effortlessly. “It means something’s amiss.”

“Thanks,” John said, and went back to his chair with a suppressed smile, extremely proud of himself of getting Sherlock to speak French.

~

Sherlock never planned to ask John if he spoke any dialects spoken in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, he couldn’t control the clients.

“You served in Afghanistan,” the client, a small beady psychologist said.

“Yes, I did,” John said. “Now, about your sister—”

“Do you speak any of the languages? Dari, perhaps?”

“Not much of Dari, no,” John said. “I know more Pashto.”

“Interesting,” the client said.

They then began to speak of dialects and the likeliness of John speaking Pashto instead of Dari for several minutes, much to Sherlock’s growing annoyance. Once he redirected the conversation, he solved the “case” in a matter of minutes—affair, boring—and sent the man on his way.

“Pashto,” Sherlock said, mulling the word over.

“Yes,” John said. “What about it?”

“Nothing.”

~

A year later, when John had his realization, and Sherlock had given up hope of normal, they came to an agreement for their relationship. That agreement, of course, was dating. It wasn’t a large change from their previous relationship, but it made all the difference—the kissing, the free touching, the sharing of rooms and beds and occasionally clothes, and the fact that John could ask Sherlock to speak French whenever he wanted without being questioned.

 

He often would ask Sherlock to just speak in French, aimlessly, when he had had a bad day at work or was particularly tired from a case. Sherlock would lay with his head in John’s lap on the sofa, or with his head on John’s shoulder, or curl next to him in bed, and speak. John would relax into Sherlock’s smooth voice rolling through the syllables, and feel the stress evaporate.

 

What John didn’t know was exactly what Sherlock said. John had taken Spanish in school, and had barely any experience beyond “Bonjour” and “Je m'appelle.” He never asked, and Sherlock kept the information blissfully to himself. He expressed his love for John in those foreign phrases, how he would never leave again, and how John deserved so much more than all the love he could offer. He was still terribly frightened of expressing it all in English for John to understand, so he spoke the same ideas over and over in different variations each time John asked.

~

John noticed that Sherlock never asked him to speak Pashto. He was rusty, but he still knew a few sentences, and could probably hold a conversation, may the need ever arise.

Unsurprisingly, when Sherlock first asked John to speak Pashto, he was out-of-his-mind, shoot-the-walls, no-case-for-a-week bored. He hung upside down on the sofa and groaned. John giggled a little and took a sip of tea.

“John, say something.”

“Like?”

“Something in Pashto.”

Another unsurprising fact of the moment: the first words to John’s head were:

“زه تا سره مینه لرم.”

To Sherlock, it sounded like, “Za tasra mena laram.” He hadn’t studied Arabic roots in years, didn’t have the need. He didn’t have a clue what John was saying, and though it never bothered John, it bothered him.

“What does that mean?”

John faltered. “I, ah, didn’t expect you to ask, since I never ask you.”

“Do you not remember?”

“No, I do.”

“Then what does it mean?” Sherlock flipped over on the couch and leaned on the arm to face John, who was still standing in the kitchen.

“It-it means ‘I love you.’” They hadn’t said it yet, and John hadn’t wanted to mess it all up by coming on too strong and scaring Sherlock away. Now he’d done it, and in two languages, too.

Sherlock froze for a millisecond, then vaulted off the couch towards John. John nearly dropped his tea when Sherlock slammed into him, and scrambled to put it on the counter before Sherlock’s lips pressed his, hard. Sherlock’s hand came up to cup John’s face, and John’s did the same, his other hand tucked to the small of Sherlock’s back to keep him close. The kiss deepened quickly, and Sherlock pulled back with a whimper from John.

“I love you too, John Watson,” Sherlock panted.

John tipped his head back up to take another kiss. “God, bedroom,” he gasped.

“Yes, I agree,” Sherlock said. He led John by the hand to his room, prepared to whisper French endearments into his ear the entire time.


	2. B- Booze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where John is an alcoholic and Sherlock is a drug addict and they help each other through addiction, more or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I thought it would be. Tell me if I got anything wrong as far as alcoholism, PTSD, or drug addiction go. xx Opal

When John was discharged, he didn’t know what to do with his life. Since he was a kid, he knew his purpose was to heal. Since he was in middle school he knew he wanted to go into the army. While other students around him grappled with their purpose or career, John knew his without a doubt. His purpose was—had been—to heal those that fought for their country valiantly, without fear. He fixed them and sent them back to fulfill their own purpose.

Sure, the battlefield was haunting. Bombs blowing soldiers apart beyond John’s capabilities of sewing them back together, too many injured at once and he couldn’t save them all, and above all, the very worst, was when he had to choose who lived and who died. They all needed to live, for something or someone, and John just couldn’t save them all.

And then he got shot. He was bandaging a solider on the front lines, a quick job that could get him back fighting the next day, when he heard it. Someone yelled, he wasn’t sure who, and the fire started. John had flung himself over the soldier, and that’s when the bullet hit his shoulder. It went through, but was slowed enough that the soldier under him was barely hurt, and it was three days before he got back on the battlefield instead of one.

But John’s was more complicated—he needed PT, had aftereffects—he couldn’t be allowed to continue serving. So he was discharged, and John lost his purpose, but worse than that, he had to stop helping people get back to their purpose.

So he went back to London and moved into a tiny flat and after two days of internal conflict took a page out of Harry’s book and went down to the pub.

He stayed there all afternoon, and returned the next day, and the next.

And the next, and the next, and the next.

His fridge came to contain mostly alcohol of different types. He hated himself, but what was he supposed to do? Nothing happened to him, and it’s what he needed desperately—something to happen. Anything, really. Anything other than irregular shifts at the surgery, therapy, nightmares, and the rest of his PT. So he drank. It was something.

~

Sherlock had always been a genius, medically. Whether he felt it or not was debatable. He had no frame of reference until he entered school, so until then he, under the guide of Mycroft, always felt inferior and stupid. Mycroft helped him, of course, with reading, then writing, then introduced him to science, which Sherlock loved immediately. Mycroft guided his readings and dissections, and then Sherlock entered school.

He immediately realized he was smarter than everyone else. It lead, obviously, to a lot of hatred towards his classmates and teachers. He told all this to Mycroft, who shared the feeling, and assured it wouldn’t change any time soon. As a consolation, he got Sherlock more advanced textbooks and writings to enjoy during class time.

When Sherlock came home with his first crush, he went to Mycroft instead of his parents. He thought Mycroft would be pleased, but his reaction was the opposite. He told Sherlock to shut down the emotion, because it would interfere with his studies and weaken him. Sherlock never came home with another crush, and Mycroft never stopped reminding him of this, his “most important lesson,” according to him.

So Sherlock sped ahead in school. His single focus was his studies; anything scientific fascinated him. In high school, he finished all his required classes by second year and filled his schedule the last two with every elective science course the school offered. He excelled at all, and after a unit on forensics in one class, he decided that would be his major, with a minor in chemistry.

While Sherlock’s single focus may have been his studies, the hatred for his classmates had only grown, to an almost unbearable degree. There was only one student he liked, and who liked him—Andre Castillo. He was the best drug dealer in the school, and Sherlock met him after school every two weeks for a fag and to buy. First year, marijuana; second year, LSD (mostly for experiments, but he had to ingest it to perform them); third and fourth years, opium.

Opium remained his favorite of all of them—marijuana was too weak, and LSD too violent and strong; he preferred facts over hallucinations. He kept up the habit in college, and of course Mycroft knew. He warned Sherlock, but Sherlock refused to respond. He graduated, and graduated to cocaine. He found people that liked him, for whatever reason, and he didn’t care if it was a meaningless friendship if they admired him and kept supplying him with what seemed like his purpose in life—drugs. He solved a few cases here and there for NSY, but compared to the high of drugs, they simply weren’t frequent enough to keep him off.

~

The day John met Sherlock, he felt worse than normal. This man, who barely knew him, wanted John to move in with him. No one wants to live with a middle-aged alcoholic that lays puking in the bathroom like a college student at all hours of the night because he couldn’t handle his drinks like he used to. He was still trying to figure out how to get around it when _it_ happened.

 _It_ , of course, being the drugs bust during their first case. An addict, just like him. There would be sympathy, and empathy. This could work.

So he moved in.

 

John was wonderful. John liked Sherlock. Really liked him, not just because Sherlock was buying drugs from him. John was an army doctor, and he was attractive, and he wanted to move in with Sherlock even after the not-so-pretend drugs bust. This was wonderful, this was a miracle.

A while ago, Mycroft had asked Lestrade to bring Sherlock in on cases more regularly. He had told Sherlock that he wouldn’t send him to rehab just yet. But if things escalated any more—namely, if he became a public name or overdosed—he wouldn’t hesitate to. Sherlock had sneered and left. But, admittedly, his usage had decreased a little. He still took fags whenever he could, and when he went without a case for a week, he used. He had too. The boredom drove him insane, and whatever drug, usually opium or cocaine, calmed his mind blissfully.

And then _it_ happened.

 

John hadn’t meant for it to happen. He’d only had a couple shots. Hadn’t he? He couldn’t quite remember. All he could remember at this moment was that Sherlock was in the other room and God, puking was so loud. He retched into the toilet and rested his head on the seat. This was awful.

 

Sherlock heard John’s retching from his room. He was immediately worried, and only debated for a few minutes before he left his room and went to find John in the bathroom. He pushed open the door with a quiet question of John’s name.

John looked up at him with this expression that looked sad and apologetic and horrified and miserable all at once. Sherlock pursed his lips as one of the walls around his heart disintegrated and squatted down by John.

“No, Sherlock, I’m fine,” John choked out. “You can go.”

“I don’t want to go, and you’re not fine,” Sherlock said. John retched again and Sherlock instinctively put a hand on his back and rubbed smooth circles. He had seen this before, the puking, from newer users, and it was one of the few emotional actions he knew how to deal with. “It’s okay,” he said quietly.

“No, it’s not fine,” John said when he finished. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t even mean to get this drunk, I just—” He leaned over the toilet again as a wave of nausea swooped over him, but he didn’t heave.

“Never do,” Sherlock said.

They stayed in that position for the next half-hour, with John sitting inelegantly by the toilet and Sherlock sitting cross-legged and smoothing his hand over John’s back continuously. They stayed until the nausea was gone and John could stand with Sherlock’s help and not fall over. Sherlock helped him to his own bedroom, because there wasn’t a possible way John could negotiate the stairs like this. John sat down on the side of the bed, and Sherlock crossed to sit on the other. He leaned back against the headboard and after a moment John did too.

“Shit,” John said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock said. “So, alcohol? That’s why you would move in with an addict?”

“Technically we’re both addicts,” John said.

“Technically.”

“So what do you use?” John asked. Sherlock looked over, but John had his eyes closed and head tilted up.

“Opium, cocaine. Cigarettes, that’s technically a drug. If there’s a case, I don’t use, but when there’s not…” He trailed off and let the silence finish the sentence.

“I want to look at your arm in the morning,” John said.

“Okay.”

It was quiet for a moment. Sherlock thought John had drifted off when he spoke.

“Do you think you’ll ever quit?” John asked.

“Maybe. If I ever have a reason.”

“What about a deal?”

“Continue.”

“I’ll quit if you do.”

Sherlock considered the proposal for a minute.

“Will you stay? Through all the withdrawals?”

“Of course,” John replied immediately. “Will you stay through mine?”

“Obviously.”

“So it’s a deal?”

“Yes.”

 

That night, John slept in his undershirt and pants and Sherlock slept in his pyjamas. In the early hours of the morning, John had a nightmare, and as it usually happened, screamed in his sleep. Sherlock woke, of course, and unknowing what to do in this situation, decided to wake John. He woke, panting, with the smallest of tears collecting in his eyes, and said nothing. He turned on his side facing away from Sherlock, and for whatever reason, Sherlock knew the right thing to do at that moment. He slid over on his side and moved to be next to John. Not close enough for his chest to touch John’s back, but close enough to feel the heat that emanated from him and sense each deep breath.

 

John noticed Sherlock move over. God, puking up shots and a nightmare. Pity, of course, but he’d take it. He shifted back so his back was pressed against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock cautiously moved an arm over his chest, and John shifted closer to Sherlock. Yes, this was nice.

~

The next morning, they woke how they had gone back to sleep after John’s nightmare. Instead of moving away like John had expected, Sherlock stayed in that position. They got up eventually, and John had a hangover, and after medicine and water he examined Sherlock’s arms as promised. His fingers traced each vein, hovered each inner elbow where he knew the veins could never hold an IV. He sighed, moved his hands down to hold Sherlock’s, and looked up at the man sitting in the kitchen chair. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He moved on hand to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck and nudge his head forward. Their lips met, and John suddenly knew he would be able to do this as long as Sherlock was with him.

 

Sherlock felt John’s hands drift over his forearms and inner elbows. He watched John’s hands hold his, and he couldn’t drag his eyes away from John’s when he moved his hand up to cup the nape of his neck and bring him in for a kiss. Their lips met, and Sherlock knew that as long as John was here, this high could last him between cases.


	3. C- Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no smut and I'm sorry about formatting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about we alternate fluff and not-so-fluff?

John knew Sherlock had an addictive personality. So when it was the third day without a case, he was only a little surprised when he walked into the living room to see Sherlock kneeling by the coffee table, holding playing cards carefully in his long fingers, titled to form another triangle on the tower in front of him.

“What are you—” John started, but Sherlock cut him off with a vicious shush.

“It’s very delicate, John. No vibrations whatsoever.”

John nodded and took a step forward. Sherlock’s head jerked to the side.

“What did I say?”

“Okay,” John said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll go up to my room.”

“No stairs!”

“Where should I be, then?”

“Kitchen.”

“Doing?”

“I don’t know, John. Type something on your blog. Find me a case. I don’t care.”

“Fine.” John reached over without moving a step and grabbed his laptop, then carefully pulled a chair out and sat down. If it kept Sherlock calm, he would put up with it.

~

An hour later, John looked back over at Sherlock. The tower had doubled in size, and Sherlock was still producing packs of cards from somewhere. He cleared his throat. Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Sherlock, are you going to eat today?”

“I had toast this morning.”

“You need to eat something else.”

“Fine. But do I have to now?”

“Yes, you do,” John said. He stood up and went to the fridge. “Because I’m eating now, and I’ve barely seen you today.” No body parts, but also no food. Out, then.

“There’s nothing in the fridge,” Sherlock said absently.

“Yes, I can see that. Come on, we’re going out.”

If Sherlock hadn’t been inches from a fragile tower of cards, he would’ve sighed. “Fine.”

John waited for Sherlock as the man put the loose cards in a stack and carefully tread across the floor. He breezed past John and opened the door gingerly, then ushered John out. He shut it behind them just as gently, and turned to John.

“If that is tipped over when we get home, I will kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

~

They went to Angelo’s for dinner. Sherlock picked at his pasta, but ate most of it at John’s urging. Their feet had instinctively twined together under the table, and John could feel every anxious kick of Sherlock’s feet.

“Calm down,” John said after what felt like the fortieth kick. “It’s just been three days. I’ll get you a case soon.”

“I’m bored, John,” Sherlock whined. “There’s nothing to _do_.”

“I could help with that,” John smirked.

“Really, John,” Sherlock said, exasperated, but a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

 

They left Angelo’s soon after, and Sherlock’s hand found John’s and laced their fingers together on the walk back. John smiled to himself. No matter how long they were together, he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to being able to do this—let the world know that Sherlock Holmes was his, and would be his for as long as the other man let him.

 

Back home, Sherlock opened and closed the door carefully, and led John upstairs—less vibrations to disturb the cards, apparently. They were unhurried, and lay on the bed fully clothed, just kissing, slow and deep, the kind of kisses that favor savoring the other person’s presence over lust. Eventually, the kisses escalated into something more heated, and clothes were shed to the floor by two pairs of hands. It was slow, reverent, and not only because John had promised to entertain Sherlock. John loved the sounds Sherlock made as he writhed with pleasure under John; he loved that _he_ was the cause of that incredible pleasure. He assumed Sherlock felt the same.

 

II.

John also knew personally that Sherlock had an addicting personality. He was a wild card to someone who didn’t know him as well as John did. To John, Sherlock could be likened to a royal flush—perfect. Something about his personality, the combination of sarcasm and intellect and mystery, had attracted John first. Then came the social disregard and the stunted emotions, and that made John love him all the more, for whatever reason. All he knew was that he was addicted the Sherlock Holmes, to his cases, to his kisses, to each small thing he said that he would only say to John.

~

John walked downstairs carefully after remembering the cards. Sherlock was still asleep, and he wanted to return with two cups of tea. As he passed the living room, he looked over and smiled at the still-standing tower of cards.

 


	4. D- Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I'm sorry about drabble but I was working on my application and lost track of time. Expect a sequel to this later (Hint: the title will be Not Dead).

 

John went into Sherlock’s room two days after the fall. He had been in there before, but this time seemed different, since Sherlock would never step foot in it again. John sat on the bed and looked around. Simple, neat, efficient. Very Sherlock. One of his dressing gowns was hanging on the doorknob and John tugged it off without thinking. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Sherlock, and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, he could almost imagine he was hugging him. But he wasn’t, because Sherlock was dead, and John felt like he was dying inside, with no passion or motivation to summon to do anything. Oh, and the nightmares were back, and now Sherlock featured in them. Everyone was dying, and John had to watch them all.

 

Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock. Was. Dead.

John repeated it over and over to himself. He couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was dead. John had watched him. That was almost worse: John had stood there, watching. Sherlock had called him there just to watch Sherlock plummet. If Sherlock were alive, John wanted to hit him, and hug him, and just stare at him blankly in equal measures.

But he couldn’t. Because Sherlock was dead.

 

Not to be one-sided, Sherlock felt equally terrible. He could have said it on that call. But he didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been right. On the off chance John returned the sentiment, it would be all the more painful for him. Yes, of course Sherlock realized how it would hurt John. He lived with John. John stayed with him through more than a year, mostly happily. That kind of—friendship?—friendship does not end without a little bit of mourning. Sherlock knew that.

But since he hadn’t said it on the call, now he might, very likely might, die without saying it. He entrusted Mycroft with the information to supply to John if he died, and Mycroft was oddly solemn and quiet about it. All the urgings that sentiment would destroy him, and there were none this time. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.

 

John texted Sherlock’s phone often. He would text, “Good morning,” and “I hope you’re eating something in Heaven,” and “God, now I’m the bored one.” He texted “Don’t be dead, Sherlock,” and then just “Please.” Each went through, so John knew somewhere, a phone was buzzing with the texts.

 

The buzzing happened to be in Sherlock’s pocket. He had told Mycroft the phone was destroyed in the fall, but it obviously hadn’t. He had taken it, just in case John texted him.

And John did.

Sherlock wanted desperately to reply to each.

He held out until John sent a text that said only, “Please,” at one in the morning. He had just landed in Czechoslovakia, and Mycroft was off doing something. Sherlock sighed, bit his lip, and tapped a reply.


	5. E- Enigmatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU of the Blind Baker where John doesn't go on a date with Sarah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, not feeling it today. I've done a lot of writing today, so if this is awful (which it probably is in places) my brain's too tired to put out good writing.  
> Also, I only watched the first half of the Blind Banker today so sorry about cutting corners.

John had actually never had a good experience at the circus. His family tried to go once when he was eight, but his da had gotten angry about something and refused to go, and his mum was irritated the whole time and snapped at Harry when she wanted cotton candy. Harry had cried, and John had just sat in his seat, trying to make himself small, and wishing he’d never asked to go for his birthday.

When Sherlock suggested they go out, John thought he meant dinner. They were halfway there when he told John they were going to a circus. He instinctively felt uncomfortable and wanted out, but had to remind himself it was different this time. He was with Sherlock, and they were going to solve a crime, and everything would be okay.

~

Well, ironically, it was Sherlock, so of course it did not go okay. They fought Chinese gangsters in the middle of the performance and lost them, and Sherlock returned home in a huff with John trailing him. Still better than the last time he’d been to the circus, though, in John’s opinion.

Sherlock rushed out not long after they returned home and John didn’t really care. All he wanted to do was order takeaway and have a kip. He was down on sleep by about two days, and he felt it so much more than Sherlock did. He mumbled through his Thai order—no Chinese, not after tonight—and sat down to wait for the delivery. The knock at the door came much sooner than he’d expected, and he got up to answer.

~

If he’d been less tired, John might’ve noticed that the person at the door wasn’t wearing the orange shirt emblazoned with the Thai place’s logo. He might’ve slammed the door in their face and locked it. But he didn’t, and instead got hit in the side of the head with something blunt and heavy. Then everything went dark.

~

Sherlock returned to the flat excited, practically jumping off the walls. But when he opened the door, his heart dropped. In the span of half a second, he went from overly enthusiastic about the break to frightened beyond belief. All the people who had received the cipher had died. John might die. _John might die._

Sherlock dropped the book and tore out of the flat.

~

John woke dizzy and with a splitting headache. The woman in front of him, Shan, he learned, was saying something about him being Sherlock. He couldn’t quite hear clearly yet, but she was presenting evidence that he was—the check, the tickets, his sarcasm—shit, that was all rather convincing. He tried to roll his aching shoulders and realized why they were aching—he was bound to the chair in four places. He looked around cautiously. It was dark, some sort of tunnel. Flaming barrels were set up for light, so that he could see. And what he did see was the delicate-set device they had used at the circus. He was lined up perfectly in front of it. Great, he was probably going to die. Shan cut the bag and the sand started the pour out.

He was going to die.

John mentally rearranged the worst experiences at the circus and hoped desperately that Sherlock had figured out the code.

~

Minutes later, Sherlock burst around the corner. Of course he did.

“How would you describe me, John?” he called, and kicked over a barrel. The tunnel darkened. Another, then another.

“Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John called back.

Shan had drawn her gun and Sherlock spouted about how there was no way she could shoot in the tunnel. John sighed to himself. _Dammit, Sherlock._

And then Sherlock was in the midst of the gangsters and they all whirled on him at once. Sherlock took one down with a kick to the ankles and a punch to the temple and wriggled out of the brawl to kneel behind John’s chair. His fingers worked quickly to undo the knot and almost finished when one of the gangsters rounded on him. John looked up—the weight was almost in the bowl.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock punched the gangster in the gut and the man fell to the floor. More were coming, but Sherlock ducked away from them, and John.

“Sherlock!”

The weight was barely two inches away.

Sherlock dodged a punch and kicked the stand at the same moment, and the arrow flew far to John’s left. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and wriggled his hands out of the bond. There were now two gangsters left, the strongest, and Shan had fled. John worked out the knots around his feet and chest and stood up. God, he was stiff, and dizzy too. Sherlock dodged one punch but caught another to the side, caught between the two men. John grabbed the chair and ran over. None saw him, and therefore no one stopped him from bashing one man’s head with the chair. The man crumpled, and Sherlock easily incapacitated the other.

They stood panting for a moment, then Sherlock turned to him.

“Oh my God, John, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—this isn’t how—”

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said. “Did you call—”

“Yes, they’re on the way,” Sherlock said. “Come on, we’re leaving the tunnel.” Sherlock grabbed his wrist, and John jerked it away.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “That’s painful, you know.”

Sherlock’s silhouette slouched. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I’m so—” he broke off and gently slipped his hand into John’s. “You’re likely still drowsy, yes?”

“Yes, how’d you—never mind.”

He let Sherlock lead him down the tunnel, glad for his guidance. He wouldn’t have been able to find his way out himself.

When they were out, the police cars and ambulance were already there. John sat on the edge of one, and after the paramedics had assessed him, Sherlock sat down next to him, a bright orange shock blanket on his shoulders. John smirked at it.

“Nice blanket,” he said.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. “Let me see your wrists.”

John offered his wrists to Sherlock. They were red and bruised, but not the worst injury he’d ever had. Sherlock raised his hands slowly and moved fingertips lightly across the lines. John didn’t wince, it was gentle enough. He looked up from his wrists to Sherlock’s face. He looked so distraught and upset that John actually wondered for a second if he might cry. But that was ridiculous; he was the untouchable, sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t cry.

“Is it the same on your ankles and chest?”

“It’s better on my chest. They were a little looser there.”

“God, John, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I don’t know how I can—”

“Sherlock,” John said, catching Sherlock’s eyes. “I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. I’m not angry. I’m not even upset.”

“But you’re _hurt_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“What about you? You fought professional gangsters, you have to have bruises somewhere.”

“But I don’t matter, John.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone I’ve ever met, up ‘till you.”

John shook his head and took one hand from Sherlock’s grasp and maneuvered it up to his face to cup the man’s jaw.

“You’re incredible,” John said, and leaned in.

~

And that was where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shared their first kiss together, on the edge of an ambulance, in front of scores of police officers and paramedics, and neither could care less.


	6. F- Faggot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all I could think of. Teenlock, because I feel like teenlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having been called one myself, I think I can handle this. Maybe. This might be late. *Correction: will be/is. Oops. I got into it.  
> SO MANY START WITH HIM GETTING TRIPPED I'M SO SORRY I HATE IT  
> AHH THERE'S A LOT OF DIALOGUE WITH MOLLY BUT YOU SHOULD PROB READ IT BC IT'S KINDA IMPORTANT  
> HAHA IT'S RELALY LONG I APOLOGIZE  
> LOL THAT'S AN UNDERSTATEMENT ITS LIKE A WHOLE FIC'S WORTH W/ CHAPTERS N EVERYTHING BUT U GET IT AS A CHAPTER LUCKY U AND UNLUCKY ME BC I NEED TO SLEEP  
> ha the ending is terrible i should've gone on longer and maybe i will and put it in its own fic  
> this isn't even angst it's just teenlock fluff  
> i apologize for the notes i wrote last night but i'm leaving them

One minute, Sherlock was walking to Chemistry, and the next, his books were scattered in front of him and his cheek was pressed to the cold floor of the school’s main hallway. He grimaced and heard the chorus of laughter receding behind him. People stepped around him on their way to classes. Sherlock groaned and planted his hands to heave himself off the tile, but a hand interrupted his progress. Sherlock stared at it, confused, and looked up to its owner. The boy squatting over him was short, sturdy, blond, and very cute.

“Need help?”

Sherlock sneered and sat up himself. “No.”

“Oh. Alright.” The boy started to gather Sherlock’s things.

“I’ve got it,” Sherlock said, and picked up his things faster than he would have thought possible. He stood up, and the boy handed Sherlock his books.

“What’s that on top?” he asked. “Physics three? Advanced?”

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said. “I’m thinking of returning it. It’s a bit simple.”

“Really?” John asked. “No way. I can barely understand Physics one.”

“Good thing you don’t plan to go into that field,” Sherlock muttered, and moved to go around the boy.

“What was that?” the boy said after he had caught back up with Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at the boy for a second. Why was he still here? Better yet, why had he stopped to help Sherlock up?

“I said,” Sherlock repeated, “It’s a good thing you don’t plan to go into that field.”

“How do you know that?”

Sherlock turned down the science hallway and the boy followed him. “You’re carrying a medical journal. It could go in your backpack, but you’re carrying it, suggesting that you read it whenever you can. It could be for your class, but our school doesn’t offer anything in that specific division. Also, you take both Health Science and Anatomy and Physiology.”

“Extraordinary,” the boy said. He looked at Sherlock with a kind of awed expression.

“Simple.”

“How’d you know about my schedule?”

“It’s on the back of your binder.”

“Ah, right.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked to his left, at the Chemistry classroom. “This is my stop,” he said. _As if the boy needed, or wanted, to know,_ Sherlock chastised himself. The warning bell rang and Sherlock looked at the room again before turning back to the boy, whose gaze hadn’t wavered, still focused on Sherlock. It was almost unsettling, that stare on him—he would’ve been more comfortable if it was out of malice or contempt, but it wasn’t.

“Oh,” the boy said. He sounded disappointed, and Sherlock grew even more confused. “I was hoping I’d get to walk with you a bit more.”

“Why?”

“Reasons. Anyway, ah, I’m John Watson.” He stuck his hand out for Sherlock to shake.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock shook the boy’s—John’s—hand.

“I know,” John said. He winked and turned down the hall without a glance back. Sherlock stared after him with a furrowed brow for a second, then went into the room. He had barely sat down when the tardy bell rang and he absently wondered if John had made it on time.

~

John walked to his class triumphantly. He had finally done it. He had finally approached Sherlock and spoken to him. If he had been received a bit badly, at least he’d done it. And he had his rugby mates to thank for the perfect opportunity.

He groaned at the announcement posted on the board. He had wanted to try and follow up, get Sherlock to talk to him during lunch. Now he didn’t have a chance. Rugby and he were even, at least. One point for John for talking, thanks to them, and one for the reverse. Maybe he could catch up with Sherlock after school, maybe before practice for a few minutes.

~

There was some emergency announcement that his second period teacher had to read and Sherlock sat through it, annoyed, as he toyed with the beakers in front of him. It was about the rugby team, but Sherlock stopped listening after that.

“…John Watson, Mike Stamford, Gr—” Sherlock sat up. John? John was on the rugby team? And he had stopped to help Sherlock, and walk him to class, and take an actual interest in him? The teacher continued listing names as Sherlock tried to work through any logic in that connection. The rugby team had tripped him, laughed at him. John should’ve been one of them, but he hadn’t. He had _winked_ , for God’s sake. For once in his life, Sherlock was stumped by a person’s character traits.

“Again, those students need to meet in the gym during lunch,” the teacher said. “That means we’ll have to reschedule your detention, Miles. Coach Pettit specifically asked me to, and that’s the only reason I will.”

“Alright,” Miles said through a wad of gum. His feet were on the table behind Sherlock, and he could smell the boy’s disgusting feet. The teacher turned to the board and Miles pelted a spitball at him. Sherlock ground his teeth and flicked the paper off him. The teacher was drawing out a resonance structure, so Miles had time to spit another one at him. Sherlock spun around and locked eyes with him, but before he could get out his prepared deduction about how he was obviously cheating on his girlfriend, and she was cheating on him, both with the same girl, the boy sat forward, narrowed his eyes, and hissed out,

“Problem, faggot?”

Sherlock blinked. That was new. Freak, sure. Psychopath, yeah. Asshole, sure. But faggot? He usually found that people had more of an issue with his “rude” deductions than his sexuality. That was… new.

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to say? Have I rendered the fag speechless?”

Sherlock raised the side of his lip in contempt. “How’s Irene? Next time you shag her, you should ask how she does it with Allison.”

Miles’ eyebrows furrowed and his mouth dropped open. “How the hell—Allison? Whatever. You’re probably just lying, attention whore.”

The teacher turned from the board to face the class. “Mr. Holmes, will you please turn around?”

Sherlock huffed and turned around. He put his head down and proceeded to answer every question the teacher asked from the crook of his elbow until the end of the period.

~

Come lunch, which Sherlock spent in the library, he was still puzzling over John Watson. Rugby, doctor, kind to Sherlock. It just didn’t fit together. He put the book his eyes were skimming down. He couldn’t read and think this intensely about something—or someone, he supposed—at the same time. The door opened and Sherlock looked up instinctively. He half-wished it was John for a second, but also didn’t, so he was only half-disappointed when the person that walked in was Molly Hooper. He put his head down and hoped she wouldn’t see him. Unfortunately, she did, and was beside him in a few seconds, pulling out a chair.

“Hey, Sherlock,” she said cheerily. God, when was she not cheery? Nothing against Molly, she was vaguely bearable, but could she not be so cheery all the time?

He grunted in response.

“What’s up?”

He sat up and ruffled his hair violently. “Must you be here right now? I really don’t want company.”

“Mm,” Molly said, looking around. “Yeah, too bad. What is it?”

“Do you know John Watson?”

Molly laughed for half a second. “Seriously? Everyone knows him. Literally every girl is in love with him.”

“Including you?”

“Eh. I rather fancy Greg, honestly.”

Sherlock nodded. “Great, wonderful. But what’s he like? I can’t figure him out.”

Molly widened her eyes in mock surprise. “The great Sherlock Holmes can’t figure someone out? Why didn’t someone tell me the world’s falling apart?”

“Yes, very funny, Molly. Exactly why I want to be alone.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself. What do you mean?”

“He’s on the rugby team, wants to be a doctor, and tried to help me up when the rest of the team tripped me and laughed.”

Molly pursed her lips. “One, when? And two, ‘tried to?’”

“This morning. Unimportant. And yes, tried to. I refused his hand.”

“Why? Girls would kill you to be in your spot.”

“Girls would kill me anyways.”

“Stop it. What happened then?”

“He insisted on following me to class. And talking.”

“God, talking?” Molly mocked. Sherlock gave her a sharp look. “Sorry. That’s friendly. That’s normal, Sherlock.”

“One, no it’s not. Not for a rugby player, and especially not towards me. Two, that’s not all.”

Molly nodded to concede to the first point. “What’s not all?”

“When he left, to go to his class, he winked.”

“He winked?”

“Yes, Molly, do keep up.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock, John Watson _flirted_ with you.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Why else would someone wink?”

“He said he knew my name. He said ‘John Watson,’ and I said, ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ and he said, ‘I know,’ and winked.”

Molly raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Sherlock, that’s flirting. Like, textbook flirting.”

“But why would anyone flirt with me?”

“Because they like you.”

“You think John Watson likes me?” Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “Again, why would anyone like _me_?”

“Same reason I do,” Molly said. “You’re brilliant, clever, and fairly gorgeous.”

Sherlock blew a breath through his nose and shook his head. “You’re biased.”

“Apparently so is John.”

Sherlock groaned and Molly laughed. Not at him, Sherlock realized, but with him, in a way. At the situation, perhaps.

“Sorry,” Molly said through giggles. “I just—you—John—it’s hilarious.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, you beg to differ about everything. Just let this happen for once.”

“There’s nothing to let happen.”

The bell rang to signal the end of lunch.

“Whatever. Come on, I’ll walk you to the math hall. I have English, so.”

Sherlock nodded, put on his backpack, and followed Molly out of the library. They walked in relative silence until they passed the gym. The rugby players were streaming out, and without knowing he was doing it, Sherlock searched for John. He spotted him easily—he was much shorter than the rest of the team. John turned and saw him too, and waved. Sherlock looked away to Molly, who was waving at Greg. He grabbed her arm and drove them away from the hoard of players.

“Ow, Sherlock, let go! I was trying to flirt!”

“Yes, whatever.” They walked along to wall towards their halls. “He saw me. And he waved.”

“He likes you.”

“You said all the girls love him.”

“Doesn’t mean he loves them back.”

“Has he- has he ever had a girlfriend?”

Molly gave Sherlock a restrained grin. “Yeah. Mary Morstan. He broke up with her after, like, a week. She was devastated, but all the other girls were excited he was available again.”

“No one else?”

“No, not that I recall. No boyfriends, if that’s what you’re digging for.”

Sherlock sighed. Puzzling. They reached the math hall and Molly waved as Sherlock turned down. He returned the wave and went into his classroom.

~

John sat through Coach’s spiel about how the guys need to get less detentions or he’ll have to impose a rule about it. Miles sniggered behind him, and when John turned to look, he was showing Nate a photo of Sherlock that morning, facedown on the floor. He clenched his teeth and turned back around. Sometimes he wished he could make a team of Mike, Greg, and himself. Sometimes he swore they were the only decent people on the team.

When the bell rang, Coach let them go, but Mike and Greg held him back for second.

“How’d it go with Sherlock?” Mike asked as they walked out.

“Well, I talked to him,” John said. “He was a bit…distant, I guess. It didn’t seem like he wanted to talk to me.”

“Well, it’s a start at least,” Greg said. He clapped John on the back. “Gonna try again tomorrow?”

“I was hoping to talk to him during lunch, but this stupid meeting. Maybe before practice for a few minutes.”

“That’s worth a shot,” Mike said. They reached the back of the team and quieted. John looked through the crowd of students streaming towards the academic hall and spotted a head of raven curls. Sherlock was looking at him already, and John waved. But Sherlock just dragged a girl—Molly, Greg was always talking about her—away with him. John sighed and caught Greg’s eye. Greg shrugged at him.

~

Sherlock spent most of the day the same way he’d spent second period. The only time he could get really lost in something else was strings class, where he played his violin off by himself, practicing his own piece. The teacher had long given up teaching him, and only came to him on exams, but today was a free-practice day, so he could truly play without interruption. By the end of the day, he was exhausted of thinking, which usually happened, but this time he was exhausted because all he could think were a few simple phrases, and most were questions. It was far more exhausting than his usual steam of information, and he skipped sneaking into the Chem lab to just go home and continue the experiment at home. His walk took him past the rugby fields, and the team was pouring onto the field. He saw John immediately; he was standing behind the rest of the team, looking for someone. Against his better judgement, he stayed and edged a little closer to John’s line of vision. The boy’s eyes lit on him and he jogged over to Sherlock.

“Hey,” he said. “I was hoping I’d catch you before practice. Really, I was hoping to talk to you at lunch, but that didn’t happen.”

“Mm.” Sherlock rocked on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Well,” John said, rocking on his feet too, “I don’t really know. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Sherlock looked at him, obviously confused. “Why?”

John sighed. _All or nothing, John._ “Because- because I rather fancy you, and that’s something you do when you fancy someone. You talk to them.”

Sherlock stared at him. Everything slowed. But…why? Why him? John didn’t even know him. Was this some kind of trick? It had to be. Go on, tell the freak that you like him, then ditch him. Maybe literally—he wouldn’t put it past the team.

“Watson, over here!”

“Look, Sherlock, I’ve got to go. Just- just wait for me after practice, alright?”

John jogged off, leaving Sherlock looking after him, very confused.

~

John powered through practice. A part of his brain thought that if he moved faster, so would practice. Alas, that wasn’t the case, but it felt like it a bit. Miles and Nate and half the rest of the team sniggered about Sherlock the whole time, and John just worked all the harder, trying to tune them out. Once the rest of the team was in the locker rooms, Greg jogged up to him.

“What’d you say to him?” he asked. “He’s been sitting there all practice, all confused. I’ve never seen him looked confused. Like, ever.”

John scrubbed a hand up his face. “I told him that I fancy him.”

Greg laughed, sudden and quick. “Really? Damn, John, that was quick.”

“I figured if he didn’t want to be around me, it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

“He obviously wants to be around you, then, seeing as he’s been here all practice.”

“Apparently. Hold on a sec, I’m just gonna run over.”

John jogged over to where Sherlock was sitting on the metal bench far from the edge of the fence. “Hey,” he said, a bit out of breath.

Sherlock looked up at him. “Hey.”

“So you stuck around.”

“You told me to.”

“Didn’t mean you had to.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why’d you ask me to?”

“Well, you didn’t reply. You just sort of stared at me.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock didn’t finish his sentence.

“Yes, well,” John repeated. “I’ve got to shower, but I’ll be right back, promise.”

Sherlock nodded and John jogged away to meet Greg.

“He’s going to wait,” John said. Greg offered him a hopeful smile.

~

Ten minutes later, John emerged from the locker rooms with his practice bag and wearing fresh clothes. Sherlock was still on the bench, and John sat by him.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“About?”

John chuckled and looked away for a moment. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “About me fancying you.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes.”

“That’s…alright.”

“Just alright?”

“I don’t quite know what it entails.”

“Well, typically, a relationship. With dates, and…holding hands. Kissing too, usually.”

Sherlock nodded. Kissing? John? This wasn’t real. It was a joke, it had to be.

“Is this a joke?”

“Sorry?”

“Is this a joke? A- a prank, of some sort? ‘Make fun of the faggot?’”

“No, wait, Sherlock—you really think this is a joke?”

“Why else would you say something like that? I mean, Molly thought so, but she’s so gone with Greg she sees love in everything, and I—”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock stared at it. “Sherlock, this- this isn’t a joke. I swear.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked at John dubiously.

“Look, Sherlock, what do I have to do to prove this to you?”

John looked over at the vague noise coming from the entrance to the locker rooms. Miles, Nate, and several other distasteful members of the team were coming out. In a second, they’d notice them.

“We should go somewhere else. Do you like coffee? I—”

“Ooh, look at John and the fag!”

Too late.

John and Sherlock looked over at the same time. Miles made kissy noises and laughed. “Gone gay, Watson? Gay for the freak?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away from John’s.

“Fuck off,” John yelled. “I don’t see either of you keeping a steady girlfriend!”

Miles looked taken aback. “Allison—”

“Is cheating,” Sherlock supplied.

Miles looked at Sherlock. “Again, freak? She’s not. I asked; they’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Miles ran forward, with Nate behind him. He kicked dirt up at them and John stood up immediately.

“Can’t have faggots on the team,” Miles taunted. “What’re you going to do? Hit me? Over your little freak boyfriend?”

And John did.

One right hook, and Miles staggered back, clutching his cheek. He spat at John’s feet and snapped his fingers. Nate and Miles walked away, casting dirty looks at John the whole way.

John sat back down on the bench by Sherlock.

“Back to what we were—”

“Yes.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. To- whatever. Whatever you propose. Yes. You’ve proved it, good job. Not a joke, accepted.”

John grinned. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, can I walk you home, Sherlock Holmes?”

He stood and offered his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and stood up. “Yes, John Watson. I believe you can.”

So John walked hand-in-hand with Sherlock down the street, not giving a damn about who saw them.

~

Greg nudged Mark and pointed. Not far in the distance, they could see John walking with Sherlock, their hands intertwined.

“John did it,” Mark said. “I honestly didn’t think he could.”

“Goddamn,” Greg agreed.

 


	7. G- Goya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goya is an Urdu word that refers to a momentary suspension of disbelief that occurs when fantasy is so realistic that it temporarily becomes reality, usually associated with a story very well told. There is no translation for this word in English. (wordreference.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo let's see if i can do this  
> i think this is gonna be more angsty than fluffy since yesterday's was actually pretty fluffy even though it wasn't supposed to be  
> hhaha case fic is as case fic does (in this case, it means I'll breeze over all the details because effort)  
> this fic is the definition of rushed v sorry  
> #itwasgonnabetwodaysbutIhavehomework  
> #whenyouhavenorealformatting  
> #notfishingforcomplimentsIjustfeeltheneedtoexpressthoughtsaboutmyfics

Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John. Finally, his John. All those years of want, now in the past. Now he could smell John's distinct fragrance of tea and aftershave and the surgery. But as he woke, Sherlock gradually realized he was cold, even with John pressed up against him. Sherlock opened his eyes tentatively.  
Oh.  
He released John's pillow and lay back. Today was Saturday; John would be back from the conference at four. He sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. He couldn't keep doing this. Sentiment was dangerous; Mycroft had told him often enough and he had learned for himself plenty of times. But now John was in his life, brilliant, inexplicable, kind, smiling John. Straight John. Sherlock supposed that was the only aspect in which John was not perfect, at least for him.  
But Sherlock didn't matter. So John was still perfect.  
He stood and picked up the pillow. Only when John was gone could Sherlock provide himself the luxury of imagining he was holding the real John, not a makeshift form of blankets and pillows, since he could only take John’s bedding to sleep with when John wasn’t there. He brought the borrowed pillow back upstairs and meticulously replaced it on the bed even though John probably wouldn't notice even if it was moved a little.  
Sherlock positioned himself on the couch downstairs and impatiently awaited John's arrival.

~

It was four-thirty when John opened the door to the flat with a sigh and dumped his overnight bag in his chair.

“Not worth the train ride?” Sherlock suggested from the couch.

“I don’t want to know how you know.”

“Obvious, you—”

John held his hand up and Sherlock hushed. “I said I don’t want to know.”

“But I’ve been cooped up for ages!” Sherlock sat up on the couch and stared at John. He catalogued every inch of John he could see, and filed it away in his Mind Palace under, “Johnà tiredà conference.” Sherlock wanted nothing more than to gather John in his arms and soothe away the stress of the trip with soft caresses and massages on his obviously aching shoulders and feet. But he couldn’t do that. Instead, he offered to make tea.

“You never make tea.”

“You’re tired.”

John shrugged. “If you want to.”

Sherlock stood up and went to the kitchen. John took his spot on the couch and stretched out with a muffled groan.

“You ate while I was gone, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. “No case.”

John smiled and flicked on the telly and Sherlock was momentarily distracted by how domestic it all was.

A few minutes later, he sat down on the edge of the couch, where John’s feet didn’t quite meet the other arm of the sofa. He passed John his mug and sipped at his own.

“You can make tea, then,” John said.

“Surprised?”

“A bit. Now I can expect you to make tea a bit more often.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

John chuckled and Sherlock looked over to spot the grin on John’s face. He didn’t think there was anything he loved more, besides The Work, than causing that grin to grace John’s face.

~

In the early hours of the morning, Lestrade texted Sherlock about a break in an old case. Sherlock replied immediately, since he was up already. He always found it more difficult to sleep the few days after John returned from a trip, because he had to get used to sleeping sans-John’s pillow again. Lestrade sent Sherlock the rest of the details, and by the time John was awake Sherlock had almost figured out the solution. All he needed was to walk around the scene and find all the bits of evidence the police had ignored or deemed unimportant.

Five minutes into breakfast, after John had woken up and had his coffee, Sherlock broke the news with an excited spluttering of information. John stared at him for a second, sipped his coffee, and then said,

“So. Case.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, aggravated. “We need to go today.”

“Do we really, though? Do _we_?”

“Yes, John, _we_ do. I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John chuckled. “Where is it?”

“Not far. If we start driving by eleven we’ll get there about nine.”

“At night?”

“I said it wasn’t far.”

John groaned. “Give me a few minutes to get ready, then we’ll go.”

When John went upstairs, Sherlock jumped and grinned. Even though he had almost solved it, at least he was getting out of the flat for a while. With John, too.

~

They arrived near eight and John went to check in.   
"Only single beds, sorry." The man at the counter offered John a sympathetic smile and a key.  
"And you've checked?"  
"Twice. Sorry, mate."  
"No, it's fine. It is fine."  
The man addressed another customer and John turned to look for Sherlock.  
"Sherlock! Room's ready," he called. Sherlock turned away from the woman he was interrogating and joined John by the door.  
"They only had single beds," John said.  
"Is that alright?"  
"Is it?"  
"Of course." (No, not at all.) "Why would it not be? I hardly sleep anyways."  
"Just checking. Before you ask, I'm fine with it too. And you will sleep while we're here."  
"Fine." Sherlock sighed and they went up to their room. John took the right side and Sherlock the left.

~

Later, John was sitting on the bed stretching his shoulders and Sherlock was lying next to him, hands steepled under his chin.  
"It's too late to do anything," John said. He had gone through his nightly routine at that point at it was nearing nine.

“You can read.”

“You hate my books.”

“It’s something for you to do.”

“What’ll you do, then?”

“Think.”

“Fine. I’ll say something when I go to bed.”

“I’ll know.”

John didn’t respond, and the room dissolved into quiet. Sherlock was thinking, of course, but not about whatever abstract-science-thing John usually thought Sherlock was thinking about. Instead, he was thinking about how close John was to him, and how his pulse was racing out of time, while John’s—John, really—seemed perfectly calm. It would be so easy, tonight, to turn on his side or shift over during the night and be touching him, which obviously wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up. John was looking down at him. He closed his book and broke eye contact to set it down on the table.

“Hm?”

“Ah, just, I’m going to bed,” John said. He stood and went to turn out the lights. Sherlock nodded and slid under the covers. John turned the light out and got in his side.

Sherlock could hear John’s breaths even to sleep, could feel the heat emanating off the man’s body, could feel every movement and shift John made through the mattress. It was maddening. So close, and yet miles out of reach. Leagues, some might say.

Sherlock flipped to his other side so he faced away from John, and scooted to the edge of the bed. It was the farthest distance he could put between them, and it would have to do.

~

Although when he was in his Mind Palace, Sherlock would often become nearly comatose, he was a notoriously light sleeper. So when John started to gasp and cry out in his sleep, Sherlock woke immediately.

Sherlock turned and sat up. “John,” Sherlock said. What did he do? John yelled again, and Sherlock put a hand on his arm. “John,” he said, a little louder.

John’s forehead creased and he tossed his head. Sherlock yelled his name again, and his eyes jolted open.

“Sher—” he could barely gasp the man’s name before Sherlock’s other hand was in his, and John squeezed it hard, grateful to be able to ground himself. He panted and his chest rose quickly, and he couldn’t believe that he’d had a nightmare while sharing a bed with Sherlock. He could feel the wetness in the corners of his eyes. Sherlock couldn’t seem him cry, no, no, no. He made some sort of motion with his hand and Sherlock understood. The man turned over on his side so John’s chest was pressed to his back. One of John’s arms was pulled over Sherlock’s side, hands still clenched.

John took a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s back and inhaled.

~

Sherlock turned on his side when John made a vague motion with their joined hands. He could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and figured immediately that John didn’t want him to see. Their hands stayed clasped on the way over, and John pressed his chest tightly to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock felt John’s shaky breath against his back, and the deep inhale afterwards. He was tense, he realized, and tried his best to relax. John moved closer, if possible, and Sherlock’s heart beat faster. He couldn’t entertain _the_ idea he wanted to. This position was only because John had a nightmare; when they woke up it would be back to normal.

~

And of course, the opposite was true.

When he woke, Sherlock's face was pressed into John's shoulder, his curls grazing John's chin. John's arm was wrapped around Sherlock's torso. Their legs were tangled. John's feet toyed with Sherlock's calves. Sherlock could smell John for real, feel him, see him. He felt John's solid chest rise and fall steadily. Shit, no. This was not how they were supposed to wake up. If John woke up now, he’d be disgusted, wonder how he’d done it after his nightmare. Sherlock carefully removed his legs from John's and moved them to the side. He slowly slid out of John's grasp, but just as he hand was moving from John's chest, the other man woke. Sherlock sprang up and out of bed, hoping that surprise and irritation would blank out any memory of their unconscious proximity.

John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and focused on Sherlock.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked around quickly. Right. “Ah, case.”

“Not this early.”

“Fine. Breakfast?”

“Get back in bed. The sun isn’t up. It’s barely half five.”

Sherlock sighed. No, no, wrong. “Fine.” He sat down on the bed and pulled the covers over him.

“Lay down.”

Sherlock groaned and did as he was told. He stared at the ceiling, trying desperately not to think about John. This task was made impossible by John taking his hand gently and twining their fingers. Sherlock gasped quietly and looked over.

“Problem?” John asked.

No, no, none at all. Sherlock shook his head. It was all he could manage.

“Good,” John said. He stared at their hands and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s. “Because I don’t either.”

John turned on his side and dragged Sherlock with him, so they were lying face-to-face.

John didn’t say anything. For once with them, Sherlock felt like he needed to.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

John looked up at him sharply. “For what?”

“Everything. I don’t- everything.”

John shook his head as best he could lying on his side. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Get what?

John chuckled, grinned, and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“I figure that’s alright,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. Maybe the case could wait.

~

An Epilogue of Sorts

They finally got out of bed around eight. Sherlock did an awful lot of the silent-still-staring at John, trying to figure out why John was okay with them, whatever they had become. John held his hand on the way to the scene, and Lestrade only took a few seconds to be startled and readjust his view of normal. Sherlock dragged John around the body instead of letting go of his hand, and John complimented every deduction. Sherlock solved the case, and instead of, “brilliant” or, “fantastic,” John kissed him. Unlike Lestrade, it took Sherlock quite a bit longer to recover and readjust his view of normal. They walked around the small rural town for the rest of the day, hand-in-hand for most of it. Sherlock did a lot of the staring-and/or-looking-at-John-with-a-dazed-and-confused-look thing, but by the time they were back at the hotel, the reality of the situation seemed to have sunk in. He did a bit more staring, and when John was standing, getting ready to get into bed, Sherlock strode over from the other side of the room and kissed him thoroughly. When Sherlock let go, John grinned, looked up at him, and kissed him back just as thoroughly, threading his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. They ended up shirtless on the bed, but that was where it stagnated. Sherlock was content to catalogue every part of John’s upper body with cautious fingertips and kisses, and John was content to trail kisses over Sherlock’s jawline, neck, and clavicles. So that was how they stayed, until John mentioned they should go to sleep. Sherlock agreed, and John tucked Sherlock’s head under his chin. As Sherlock drifted to sleep to the rhythm of John’s exhales, he hoped this would last when they returned to Baker Street.

It did.


	8. H- Hellish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoo take it. like it. i sacrifice my sleep for this, because i'm too stubborn to stop  
> prepare for some cliche schmoop and fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i want to do is sleep and this is not what i planned for this to be

Everyone assumed that living with Sherlock was hellish. John wasn’t one to correct them immediately. Yes, it was, a bit. Experiments everywhere, gunshots, tantrums, and strange sleeping habits were the higher points, the points that everyone expected. What they didn’t expect were the domestic things, the things that made all the hellishness worth it.

No one expected Sherlock to make tea when John came home exhausted after a stressful day at the surgery. No one expected Sherlock to create a system of ways to calm and put John back to sleep after a nightmare, without ever mentioning the dreams. No one expected Sherlock to be considerate of John. It wasn’t extremely often that Sherlock showed large motions of consideration, but there were the small moments, like when he waited impatiently for John to wake up before he told him about a case (as long as it was below a six), or held the police tape up for John to walk under, that resonated in John far more than the big things.

That was as far as it went until _it_ happened. _It_ , in this instance, was not the Fall, but the Kiss. It had been a stressful day at the surgery, and Sherlock had brought him tea, but he hadn’t stopped there as he usually did.

/~/

“Your shoulder hurts,” Sherlock had stated.

“Yes,” John said, rolling said shoulder. “And?” He picked up his tea from the table and sat back on the couch.

Sherlock perched on the arm of the couch. “More than normal.”

“Brilliant observation,” John said, rather sarcastically. “Anything else?”

“Should- Would it be beneficial for me to administer chirapsia?”

“What?”

“Chirapsia. Formal for back massage.”

John chuckled. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to turn you down. If you want to, go ahead.”

Sherlock nodded and sat down beside John. “Turn,” he instructed. “And take your shirt off.”

John obliged, if a bit self-consciously. He was used to Sherlock’s stares, but less so as he was disrobing. He settled back and rolled his shoulders again.

Sherlock’s hands were on John’s shoulders in a second, making him jump.

“Your hands are cold.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock’s long fingers worked slow circles into the tense muscles, working loose knots and making John stifle groans.

“That’s brilliant,” John said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“The Work requires a variety of skills, and—”

“No, for real.”

“YouTube.”

They fell into a companionable silence punctuated by slight groans and the popping of joints.

Eventually, the rubbing slowed into something like firm caresses, as if Sherlock was doing a spot-check to make sure he had gotten every knot out. Once he was sure he had, the caresses lightened again, and broadened to include almost all of John’s back, not just his shoulders. John shivered as he felt Sherlock’s intense stare on his back again. Just as he was about to say something, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to the nape of John’s neck. Then, as if realized what he’d done, his hands jerked off John’s back and he slid back on the couch, away from John, but got stuck with his back against the arm of the couch.

“I- ah—” Sherlock stuttered as John looked at him. A small smile lingered on John’s face as he came to the realization that Sherlock had kissed him, and was now very skittish that he wasn’t going to be accepted. His smile grew and Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, and shook his head. Then he leaned forward, cupped Sherlock’s face, and pulled him in for a proper, gentle kiss.

~

Now, not only are the other domestic moments still in place, there are others as well. Often, when John is making the morning tea, Sherlock with come up behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, and bury his face in John’s neck. Now, in addition to the methods Sherlock had perfected for John’s nightmares, he found new ways that worked with them sharing a bed—curling around him, holding his hand, grounding him in every way possible until the aftereffects wore off. Now, when Sherlock was feeling affectionate, he would kiss John’s cheek in passing. John, almost always affectionate, did the same when Sherlock was working too hard, usually as a precursor to asking him to eat something.

So, in a way, living with Sherlock was hellish. But in very different, more important ways, it was also heavenly.


	9. I- Incredible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i can write fluffy angst really quickly and i need to study so

Sherlock knew he was intelligent. He knew he was genius, in fact. He knew that it was almost as horrible as it was amazing, and he knew that he would never want to give it up. He knew it wasn’t why he hated himself.

Sherlock hated himself because he couldn’t be like John. He couldn’t be polite, or apologize, or not be bored after two hours of nothing. He couldn’t be decent, and he could feel John start to drift away.

 

John knew that Sherlock wasn’t average, far from it. He loved the man for it. He just wished he was a bit more like Sherlock, so that Sherlock would be less likely to eventually get bored of him, or when he did John would be able to take it. Because that’s what Sherlock did, in John’s eyes. He just didn’t care when people left him, because he never cared about them in the first place.

 

Sherlock wished he didn’t care.

 

John wished Sherlock cared so that he could say something about how his love was burning him alive.

 

Sherlock wished John wasn’t straight so he could at least have a chance to say something about the love that was drowning him in fear.

 

It was a bit of small talk in the sitting room during tea that led to the breaking point, in the end.

~

Sherlock was on the couch, sitting, and John was next to him. The telly was on, and John lowered the volume so he could talk.

“Am I really your first friend?” John asked. He knew it was a bit forward, and rude, and likely to shut Sherlock down, but he wanted to know. He _needed_ to know.

Sherlock paused before answering. Should he tell John, about the one other friend he’d had?

“No. Not technically.”

“Who was before me, then?”

Sherlock inhaled. “Victor. He was my friend when I did drugs. Well, I say friend.”

“What happened?”

“He left.”

John paused. Should he? “Did you care?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Too much.”

John punched the air inside his head. Sherlock could care, then. But had he decided to stop after Victor? John decided not to pursue it; he’d gotten enough information today.

 

Minutes later, Sherlock spoke.

“So, in the army,” he began. It was his turn, now, to find out something critical. “Lots of time isolated.”

“Yes.”

“Without women, mostly.”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever—?”

“One or two times.”

Sherlock tried to hide his surprise. “Do you look back on it now, as a mistake of desperation?”

John licked his lips. “No.”

“Why, then?”

John inhaled. He hadn’t expected that. Why? “Well, ah, bit of repression, maybe? After Harry, I couldn’t quite accept anything, and ah, away from family and all, no judgement, it was… freeing.” John stumbled out the words into his cup of tea.

Sherlock nodded. “Interesting.”

“Why did Victor leave?”

Sherlock looked up sharply. John was staring at him, and their eyes met. “He got bored,” Sherlock said.

John’s brow furrowed. “How? How could anyone get bored of you, you’re incredible.”

“He said I was ‘static,’ apparently. Never changed. Always rude, inhuman. A machine.”

“Bullshit. I mean, yeah, you’re a bit of an arse, but you’re anything but static.”

John stood with his empty cup and went over to take Sherlock’s from him. It was more to avoid eye contact than anything, but when he picked up Sherlock’s cup, the man’s hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there, forcing his eyes up without words or motions.

“Really?” Sherlock’s voice wavered through the question, and John could see the bare emotion, the _caring_ , laid open on his face.

“Of course,” John said. And their faces were very close already, because of John’s position went he went to take Sherlock’s cup, and somehow they inched towards each other until one couldn’t tell who kissed who, it just happened.

The tea mugs fell onto the couch and dregs spilled over the cushions. John’s free hand drew up to clutch at Sherlock’s neck and wind his fingers into his hair. Sherlock’s grip on John’s other arm only tightened, as if to keep John there.

John swiped his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip and the man groaned and opened his mouth for John to explore.

Seconds, or maybe minutes, who could tell, they broke for air. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s and whispered,

“Definitely not static.”

Sherlock chuckled and tilted his face back up for another kiss.


	10. J- Jacuzzi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship; they're at a hotel

There was a case on, and Sherlock was bouncing off the walls. They had to travel to America, and after an eight hour flight in one of Mycroft’s jets that Sherlock spent pacing up and down the cabin, they had finally arrived at the hotel. It was too late to visit the scene, so they ordered room service and John relaxed while Sherlock paced and set up his chart of evidence.

“Don’t hurt the walls,” John warned, and took another bite of his pasta.

“If they provided corkboard I wouldn’t have to,” Sherlock said.

John finished his pasta. “I can’t believe they don’t make real tea here,” he said.

“I know. It’ll be horrible.”

John cleaned up the dishes and stacked them. “I hear that this hotel has a Jacuzzi,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Come on, the case hasn’t officially started. We can have a little fun.”

Sherlock sighed. “Must I?”

“Yes, you must,” John said.

“I didn’t pack swim trunks.”

“I packed them for you.”

“You were planning this,” Sherlock said as he dug in his suitcase.

“Maybe I did,” John said, coming behind Sherlock to twist an errant curl around his finger.

“Evil,” Sherlock said and kissed John quickly. He retreated to the bathroom to change and returned a few seconds later.

“Ready?” John asked, now in his trunks.

Sherlock looked wistfully at his evidence board. “I suppose.”

~

Since it was so late, the Jacuzzi was empty. It stayed open later than the pool, which was slowly clearing of people, and it was quiet enough for them to talk in the echoing space without having to raise their voices.

“That’s wonderful,” John said as he lowered himself into the hot water. He rubbed his shoulder. “Really great.”

“Is it sore?” Sherlock asked, sliding in beside John. “From the flight?”

“Not bad,” John said. “Not great, but not bad.”

Sherlock nodded and placed his hands, steepled, under his chin.

“Hey, no,” John said, batting Sherlock’s hands away. “You’re going to enjoy this.”

Sherlock sighed and sat back against the edge of the Jacuzzi. He put an arm over John’s shoulders absently and looked around.

“It doesn’t remind me much of the pool,” he said.

John looked at him. Sherlock was still looking around, but unfocused.

“That’s good,” John said. “It doesn’t remind me much either.”

There was a pause. “Maybe it’s that we’re in America,” John suggested.

“Maybe,” Sherlock mused. “Maybe it’s that we’re together. Maybe it’s both.”

“We were together then.”

“You know what I mean. It’s different.”

John nodded. “Was it, though?”

“Yes. Not much, though.”

They sat in silence for a time. Eventually, John rested his head on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock brought his arm down around John’s torso. It was nice; the pool was cleared of all but two people, another couple, as quiet as they were. The water lapped gently against them, and John inhaled the chlorine and the remainder of Sherlock’s cologne. It was nice to have a good memory of a pool in his recent memory.

Maybe an hour later, Sherlock nudged John. “It’s almost time for the pool to close,” he said. John nodded.

“We should probably go.”

“Probably.”

A minute or so later, Sherlock moved first, and John followed him out. They walked back to the room silently, hand-in-hand. Once back, Sherlock confessed he had nearly figured out the case while they were in the Jacuzzi, and John insisted he come to bed, in that case. Sherlock curled around John, and they fell asleep with Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, and hand wrapped around John’s torso, and their legs twined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize this is probably unsatisfying and i apologize but next week's will be better since i plan to write a bunch over the weekend and set up them up on a timer so i'm not writing and publishing them at midnight


	11. K- Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you saw this coming

They had a number of different kisses.

Their first kiss was in a category of its own. It had been tender yet desperate, fearful yet sure, skittish yet confident. It had been conflicted, and had quickly devolved into a heady need for more, _now_ , and clothes had been shed and they ended up sweaty in John’s bed an hour later. John had fallen asleep, but Sherlock had stayed up, contemplating and reflecting on the oxymoronic emotions playing tug-of-war in his head. It turned out that it was all pointless, because the next morning John changed the game with just a few words, and Fear and Regret fell face-first in the mud. They were never that conflicted again, thankfully, because as much as Sherlock and John loved the kiss, since it was the start of _them_ , they also hated it, because it had been so full of fear that there hadn’t been much room for any other emotions.

The second type of kiss is John’s morning kisses. When they wake up together, John presses his lips to Sherlock’s chastely, and it usually ends there; rarely does it spiral into a bout of morning sex, but it has been known to happen. When Sherlock wakes up before John, or has been working on a case all night, John will leave their room, make tea, and wander over to where Sherlock is. He’ll then press a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s temple, crown, or lips, depending on how he’s situated in the sitting room or kitchen. Most times, Sherlock receives the kisses happily, but sometimes he growls at John for distracting him and turns away. John kisses him twice, these days, just to annoy him.

The third type of kiss is John’s “brilliant deduction” kiss. Once they started dating, John decided, unknown to Sherlock, that he would replace compliments of deductions with kisses, since he could. Sherlock couldn’t say he minded— the Yarders were certainly shocked the first time, and their snickers make Sherlock ever prouder of John’s loving smiles and kisses. He might protest, but he still gets his compliments, just in bed more than in public.

The fourth type of kiss is the kiss that happens just after they’d solved a case. With adrenaline still pumping through their veins, Sherlock will slam the door to 221B and grab John’s face in his hands, pressing their lips together. John always insists they get up to the flat first, so they stumble up the stairs, flies being unzipped and shirts being unbuttoned on the way. Unsurprisingly, the sex is wonderful, and the compliments Sherlock had been missing over the course of the case are returned to him tenfold, between kisses and reverent touches. John calls him brilliant and clever, but he also calls Sherlock gorgeous and _his_ , and Sherlock almost likes those compliments more.

The fifth type of kiss is the type of kiss that says, “I love you,” when neither can say the words themselves. Sometimes it’s after sex, when John feels so enamored with Sherlock he can’t speak, and Sherlock feels so overwhelmed by John he can’t either. More often, it happens on lazy Sunday afternoons in front of the telly when it doesn’t quite fit to say, “I love you,” out of the blue, but a kiss fits perfectly. It’s slow, and yet very fast, and followed by a smile that’s almost nervous if it wasn’t for the giver’s—usually John—eyes shining so bright, with raised eyebrows that suggest the words better than saying them could ever.

Sherlock doesn’t kiss John very much. He might, but there’s still a bit of paranoia that John will dismiss him, so he lets John do the kissing. Except when it’s post-case, then it’s him, because rational thought all but leaves his mind when he has run around London and caught a criminal in the dead of night, and John has run beside him, and John has that look in his eyes that’s a cross between the expression of the “brilliant deduction” kiss and the “I love you” kiss.

John didn’t mind that Sherlock didn’t kiss him much as long as he received at least eighty percent of John’s kisses favorably. Sherlock made up for his usual lack of public affection in bed, be it after a case or not, with skittishly reverent fingertips and whispered praises the kisses that were so soft that John wondered what on earth he had done to have this man as his, forever, and how someone else hadn’t gotten Sherlock first. Not that he wanted that, of course. He was grateful more than anything, and he was sure that Sherlock was too.


	12. L- Liquefy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you wanted 'love' for this chapter, so did i. but we're going with this.  
> angst ahead.  
> also this might make no sense  
> sorry it's late, but it's also v long, and also my internet broke and i couldn't post it until now

Sherlock loved John.

John had no idea.

Sherlock will do anything to keep it that way.

See, John is John. John is funny and more intelligent than most of the people Sherlock’s met, and he actually cares about Sherlock. He’s loyal and will kill for him and he is Sherlock’s first and best friend, truly. Sherlock would rather die than do something to lose John, which in a way, he has, because even though he’d lost John for years, and almost lost John when he returned, John was still alive, and that was all that mattered. All that ever mattered was John—John’s health, John’s life, John’s feelings. No matter how much it doesn’t look like it, Sherlock cares when he keeps John up all night for a case or is the cause of his injuries. He may dismiss it as inconsequential, or say he should just skip work to sleep because he needs John now, at two in the morning, but personally, he wonders each time he does this if it’ll be the last straw for John. He wonders this every time, but he never stops doing what makes him worry because then John’ll worry, and John should never have to worry, not for Sherlock. John shouldn’t have to worry about him when Sherlock stays up too late or doesn’t eat or gets hurt, and Sherlock feels so, so, guilty every time, but he never stops, because part of him really wants to know that John cares every time he does something reckless, and part of him knows that he can never really stop, because then John’ll ask why and worry more and Sherlock can never tell him why he stopped.

Sherlock will do anything for John, and it frightens him. He has died physically for John, he has died emotionally for John, he has killed for John’s happiness, and he has stepped back because he knows he doesn’t belong in John’s new life. He knows that to John, he is only a source of adrenaline. He can be liquefied for his resources and maintain his value. His one reasonable asset is adrenaline. Take away the coarseness, the rudeness, the strops, the attitude, and the disrespectfulness for the one person that matters, and when he’s left with is the The Work. The adrenaline, and the danger, and exactly what John needs. John doesn’t need the worry Sherlock inflicts, or the injuries, or the early morning violin played because he needs to think. Sherlock would be more than happy to be liquefied, to give John exactly what he needs with no regard for his own self, to give the rest of his years’ of danger and die there, because it would make John happy. And that’s all he wants, ever.

~

John is miserable.

He didn’t think he’d be miserable, and yet he is.

Here, with his wife, that loves him, and he loves, he is miserable, and he knows exactly why.

He needs Sherlock. Not for the adrenaline, not for the danger, but for him. For his strops and his familiarity and his early morning violin. Nobody plays the violin, or any instrument, anymore and John still wakes up automatically every morning at three, expecting to hear something. But there’s nothing. There’s never anything. There’s only Mary next to him, quiet, peaceful, mundane. The next day will be the same. Quiet, peaceful, mundane, repeat. Never anything new. Sherlock hardly texts him, and it’s awful. What’s worse is that Mary can tell, and John knows she’s getting closer and closer to asking him, to telling him, to go back. And John doesn’t know that he can.

If he did return to Baker Street, what would he do? He would join Sherlock on cases again, listen to violin at three in the morning, pull all-nighters for cases, and live in perverse agony, because although that’s where he wants to be, it would be tortuous to be put back there again and have to be his friend, and just his friend. John wants so much more. He wants to take care of the strops during a week without cases with kisses and touches and orgasms that stop Sherlock’s thoughts. He wants to heal injuries with kisses; he wants to hear the violin end at three in the morning and Sherlock come to bed. He wants everything he can’t have because Sherlock doesn’t feel that way.

~

Eventually, Mary mentioned it. She told him to go back; he loved Sherlock more than her. She wasn’t angry or jealous. She just knew, and John knew, and she smiled and said the divorce papers would be there in a few weeks. John nodded and texted Sherlock.

Sherlock got the text and panicked at the same time his heart leapt for joy. John was coming back, but at the same time, that meant he was going to start worrying and hurting John again. He couldn’t do that this time, so when John returned Sherlock tried to be colder than ever, more aloof, uncaring. John cared, but he cared less out loud. That was something, Sherlock supposed.

John wanted to cry.

Sherlock wanted to scream.

~

It happened very anticlimactically. John came home drunk one night after several hours in the pub with Greg. Sherlock was playing his violin, and when John walked in, he very nearly lost it. He hurried upstairs as fast as he could drunk and hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t follow him.

Of course he did, John wasn’t okay. John needs to be okay. Sherlock knocked gently, and when there was no response, opened the door.

John was sitting on his bed with his head in his hands, trying not to cry or scream or run away out of pure frustration. This was where he was supposed to be. This is where he was supposed to be happy. And yet, he was more miserable here than when Sherlock was in the blackest of moods before, because now it felt like Sherlock didn’t even care that John was there, offering crime scenes like they were something that didn’t matter, and he wouldn’t care if John joined him or not. Eating less, sleeping less, speaking less—it was exactly like he wished that John wasn’t there, and now that he was through with Mary, John had nowhere else to go except his old flat, and if he ever had to go back there, he might actually kill himself.

“John?” Sherlock stood in the doorway, cautious.

John didn’t respond, so Sherlock crossed the room and sat down next to John.

“Is it- is it my fault?”

John shook his head imperceptibly. “Not- I don’t know. A little,” John mumbled.

Sherlock was at a loss. He clasped his hands on his knees and looked at John.

“What should I do?” Sherlock whispered.

John shook his head again. “I don’t know. Leave.” Sherlock went to leave and John stopped him. “No, wait, don’t.” It felt good to feel like Sherlock cared again. “Just stay here.”

Sherlock nodded, even though John wouldn’t see.

They sat there for a long time. John sniffed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed. “Sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“I- I don’t know. But I obviously did something, so I’m sorry.”

“What makes you think that?”

John threw his head up and stared at Sherlock. “Really? God, ever since I moved back in you’ve been even colder than before! It’s like you don’t even want me here.”

Sherlock’s lips parted. No, no, no, he’d misunderstood it all. “No, John that’s not—”

“What is it then? If you don’t want me here, just tell me.”

“John, you are more intelligent than anyone else I’ve met in a long time. You know me better than anyone in existence. If I didn’t want you here, I would say it, and you know that.”

“Then why the hell have you been acting like this?”

Sherlock inhaled. How could he tell John? How could he risk losing him again? There—that’s it.

“I can’t lose you again,” Sherlock whispered.

“Then why act like this?”

“So you won’t worry and leave.”

“Obviously not working.”

“I see that now.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. If you were afraid of me leaving, why didn’t you just say so?”

“Sounds clingy.” Sherlock shrugged.

“There it is again! That shrug. The ‘I don’t really care’ attitude.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. He could hug John. He would risk John batting him away and leaving in a fit of “Not what I meant”s, but it would be worth the risk. Maybe.

He drew his arms around John and John tensed for a second, and for that second Sherlock thought he’d made a terrible mistake. And then John relaxed into his embrace and wrapped his own arms around Sherlock and put his head against Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock was so unsure and so, so, happy.

John didn’t know when it happened, but one second they were arguing and the next his head was on Sherlock’s chest and the tears were threatening his eyes and for the life of him, this time he couldn’t stop them. He tried to downplay it, but soon his was sobbing into Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock looked bewildered and John was so, so, sorry and he couldn’t stop it and Sherlock just hugged him tighter.

John was crying. Why was John crying? This was wrong. What did he do? Weren’t hugs a good way to calm people? Hadn’t he read that somewhere? He squeezed John a little tighter and it seemed to work. He rested his cheek on John’s head and inhaled his shampoo, then placed a light kiss into John’s hair. John didn’t respond, just knotted his hands farther into Sherlock’s shirt.

They stayed like that until John’s sobs quieted into little sniffs and his tears were mostly dried tracks on his cheeks. He pulled back and Sherlock’s arms parted easily. John couldn’t bear to look Sherlock in the face, so he just wiped his nose with his sleeve and looked away.

“Sorry,” John said.

“Don’t apologize.”

“But—”

“I should be sorry.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” John spoke almost vehemently, almost angrily.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that, so he just sat there, unsure of what to do now that John was just sitting next to him again.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Concerned, Sherlock noted.

“Yes?” Sherlock tried to match John’s tone, but he was worried the fear would slip into his voice. He heard it so clearly and hoped that John didn’t.

“Have you ever- have you ever had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, other than Janine?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had a crush? Been head-over-heels, sobbing, sniveling in love with someone?”

Sherlock paused. Yes. Yes. Yes. Now, forever, always, since John had surprised him for the first time. He almost said no, the word was almost out of his mouth, but he changed it at the last second.

“Yes.” John would ask. And just maybe, based on the night’s events, that might be okay.

“I am too.”

Not was, Sherlock noticed. Am. John is in love, present tense. Not Mary, they’re getting a divorce, and Mary brought it up. John hadn’t shown any particular interest in anyone else since—

“Is it—”

“Yes.”

Sherlock inhaled. John—him—head-over-heels, sobbing—now—still, after everything.

He grabbed John in another hug and tucked him tightly to his chest. He was crying now, quietly, silently, tears dripping into John hair as John hugged him back just as tightly. It had taken so long, and he had messed up so often, this seemed like a dream. God, what if it was a dream. Sherlock pulled back to look at John’s face.

“Is this a dream?” he whispered.

John’s hand reached up and brushed the tears off of Sherlock’s face. “God, I hope not,” he said.

Sherlock hugged John again.

~

At some point, they wound up under the covers in John’s bed, still wrapped tightly around each other. Laying on their sides, their legs tangled to match their arms. Sherlock felt like liquid, pliant and at John’s mercy, and he was so nervous, but also so happy, and settled himself with just holding John and feeling his heat and strength and presence so close.

This was it. This is what John was looking for when he left Mary for Baker Street. He was so happy, he could cry. He might cry, again. He shifted closer to Sherlock, if that was possible, and fell into the best sleep he’d had in years.


	13. M- Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where John can deduce as well as Sherlock can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (before writing) i'm excited about this and i think it'll be cool  
> (during writing) wow i didn't think i knew most of this dialogue by heart jesus. wow this is gonna be short af  
> (after writing) shit it is oops

“I looked you up last night.”

John had. Extensively. He’d thought he was the only one who could do what Sherlock could. If it was really possible, then God knows what might come of this.

“Anything interesting?”

“Found your website.” Maybe he can bait Sherlock. Maybe he’ll fess up; say he was just bluffing. It’d be a letdown, but expected.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. Guess not, then. One more try.

“You said you could identify a graphic designer by his tie and an airplane pilot by his left thumb.”

Sherlock nodded. “And I can read your military history in the way you stand and your trust issues in your leg.”

John smirked inside. Got him. “What if I told you I could do the same to you?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Impossible.”

John smiled. “Nope.”

“Prove it.”

“I can read your insecurities in the way you dress and that you have a brother you hate. I can tell you try to think you’re special, but believe you’re not, and that’s your greatest fear. I can tell that you’re gay but living with incredible internalized homophobia, and I can tell that you’re about to slap me.” John settled back in the chair and braced himself, watching Sherlock stare down at him.

“How did you do that?” he finally said.

“Same way you do.”

“But that’s not possible.”

“Guess it is.” John shifted in the chair uncomfortably. That wasn’t a slap. It wasn’t even an insult. “Am I right?”

“Not entirely.”

John nodded. “What’d I miss?”

“I’m not going to slap you.”

John smiled, and Sherlock grinned at him.

“You’re impossible,” Sherlock said, shaking his head ever-so-slightly.

“I could say the same about you.”

Sherlock walked towards the door and extended his hand. “Coming, Doctor Watson?”

John stood, grinning, and took Sherlock’s hand. “Of course.” He let Sherlock lead him down the stairs and into a cab on the way to the crime scene. This might be spectacular, or this might be the end of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should i make this full-length? also feel free to leave me words to write


	14. N- Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also noticed that i have to manually set it to publish today, so.  
> also, should I make this and 'Dying' the beginning of its own fic? Where it's just a long AU about them taking on Moriarty together?

_“Not dead.” [send]_

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and looked over at Mycroft.

 

John grabbed at his phone. If it was another sympathy text, he’d throw it. But a glimmer of hope sparkled inside him: seconds after he had texted Sherlock’s phone, he had a reply. It would be a hell of a coincidence if it was someone else.

_“Not dead.”_

John stared at his phone, mouth dry. His heart rate increased and he bent over the phone.

**“Where are you?”**

Sherlock felt his phone buzz. Mycroft was still on a call and didn’t hear it. He flipped it out and looked at the screen. John knew; Sherlock had saved him from the mourning, for the most part. If he told John, John would come after him, surely. And he couldn’t put John’s life in danger like that.

_“I can’t tell you.”_

**“Yes, you bloody well can.”**

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. Nothing. _“It’s dangerous.”_

John scoffed at his phone. **“Trying to recruit me again?”**

_“I can’t lose you for real.”_

**“That’s why if we die, we should die together.”**

Sherlock stared at his phone, then looked over at Mycroft. Mycroft had noticed and was looking at him closely.

“Shall I make preparations for two, Sherlock?”

Sherlock bit his lip.

_“Czechoslovakia.”_

“I think that will be in order, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and put his phone back to his ear.

 

John stared at his phone until it beeped. Czechoslovakia, of course.

**“I’m coming.”**

He grabbed his wallet, phone, and jacket and raced down the steps to the flat. He almost told Mrs. Hudson where he was going, but decided against it—it needed to be like he disappeared, like Sherlock.

**“I can’t make it by train in the same day.”**

_“Mycroft will send a jet. Wait outside Angelo’s.”_

 

“How long can we wait?” Sherlock asked Mycroft.

“Three hours, but that’s risky. Are you sure, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I suggest you decide.”

 

John waited outside Angelo’s for all of two minutes before one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars picked him up. He shook his leg anxiously against the leather interior, and watched out the window as the city sped by. They reached the airport much too slowly for John’s taste and drove straight onto the runway. A plane was waiting there as promised, and John couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.

**“Getting on the plane.”**

 

Sherlock and Mycroft were seated in a small café by the airport.

“How long?”

“Two and a half hours left.”

Sherlock stared into his coffee and hoped it was enough.

 

John watched out the window as the plane taxied. Why couldn’t they go faster? Who decided to pursue this instead of teleportation? Jesus, Sherlock was alive. That, or it was another one of Moriarty’s tricks—not him, of course, but one of his web. He still couldn’t believe Sherlock had let him believe he was dead, but there had to be a reason. And besides, Sherlock was alive, and John was going to him and it would be magnificent.

 

Sherlock checked his phone for the fiftieth time. One hour left.

“Stretching it, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “They’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock glared at him. “We’re waiting.”

“Decided, have you?”

Sherlock sneered and checked his phone again.

 

John was dying. This was taking too long. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he wouldn’t be able to wait long. He barely glanced at the miniscule countryside under him as they flew. He paced the cabin. What on earth was Sherlock doing? Was he hurt? God, that would be worse than if he was dead.

“John, I need you to sit down.” Mycroft’s female of choice pointed to the seatbelt light. John grinned and buckled himself in as quickly as he could.

 

“Fifteen minutes,” Mycroft said.

“Where is _your_ plane?” Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft shrugged.

“I swear to God, if you sabotaged this—”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. He might’ve yelled it, but the idea was to be invisible. “I am not to interfere with this unless you are about to die, remember? As far as I see it, Doctor Watson may actually keep you alive.”

Sherlock sat back, tapped his empty coffee cup on the table, and checked his phone. Thirteen minutes.

 

The plane bumped on the ground and Mycroft’s worker glanced at him, as if she expected him to hop out of the emergency exit. John unbuckled his seatbelt the second the sign turned off and practically bolted out the door and down the steps.

**“I’m here. Where are you?”**

 

Sherlock’s phone beeped and he jumped. He grabbed Mycroft’s coat. “He’s here,” he whispered.

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, it’s twenty minutes past the time we should’ve left.”

“But he’s _here._ ”

Mycroft inhaled and exhaled. “Fine. Quickly.”

_“Coming. Stay there.”_

They hurried back to the airport, Sherlock towing Mycroft reluctantly behind him.

 

John stared around the runway.

“John, come on.” Mycroft’s worker motioned with her head to the car beside the plane. John reluctantly got inside.

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?”

 

Mycroft insisted they stop at the arrivals gate, and Sherlock stamped his foot.

“This is taking too long,” he whined.

“Not my problem,” Mycroft said, and checked his watch.

 

The car drove around the airport and stopped at arrivals. John got out immediately and looked around. Even trying to blend in among the crowds of Czech people loading cars, Sherlock and Mycroft stood out blatantly. Mycroft, in his suit and leaning on his umbrella; and Sherlock, in one of his suits, sans Belstaff in the heat, fidgeting and looking around.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, without even thinking about using Sherlock’s name.

Sherlock spun around and locked eyes with him immediately. John jogged over, mumbling apologies to families he dodged around. He reached him in seconds, grinning. Sherlock answered him with a small smile, and before John knew what he was doing, he had his hands in Sherlock’s collar and was crushing their mouths together. Sherlock stiffened, then his hands found John’s hips and he stepped forward so they were chest-to-chest.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Very touching, but we are trying not to make a scene, and we are in fact on a schedule, if you remember, Sherlock.”

Sherlock broke for long enough to snap, “Two minutes, Mycroft,” and then leaned his forehead on John’s.

“Are you okay?” John whispered. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock whispered back. “No big missions yet. I’ll tell you about it in the car. No luggage?”

“Thought better of it.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Nope.”

Sherlock kissed him again.

~

In the car, Sherlock explained everything. He had to dismantle the web, and had to kill himself so John wasn’t. He was supposed to remain “dead” for as long as it took to dismantle the web completely, or until he really did die. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand at appropriate times, but mostly listened to the story. Mycroft sat quietly, doing something on his phone.

“So the whole thing was to keep me safe?” John asked when Sherlock was done.

Sherlock nodded.

“And how are we feeling about me coming with?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window. He wanted John with him, of course, he always did, but now if John died, it would be all his fault, and he didn’t know if he could deal with that.

John nudged Sherlock’s chin back towards him. “I said, how are we feeling?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Say something.”

“You can’t die.”

John blinked and smiled. “I won’t die, Sherlock. Promise. We’re in this together, and we’ll fight Moriarty together. Just one condition.”

“What?”

“You can’t die either.”

Mycroft sighed loudly and Sherlock looked at him sharply. “Care to say something, Mycroft?”

“Nothing at all.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a small cottage, more of a hut, really. John doesn’t ask if they’re staying there. He knows.

Sherlock leads him out of the car and they push open the door together.

“Should I carry you over the threshold?” John jokes. “Like a bride?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

The inside of the hut is dusty and bare. There’s a mattress in the corner of the single room, and further inspection of the kitchen shows a few biscuits and cans.

“I doubt you’ll actually stay here more than one night,” Mycroft said, swiping a finger over the counter and drawing his mouth up in disgust. “You’ll have tonight to… rest, before beginning the mission. Sherlock, I trust you can explain it to Doctor Watson. You’ll no longer require my assistance, so I’ll see myself out.” He strode to the door, paused and turned back. “And Sherlock?”

“Yes, what is it, Mycroft?”

“Congratulations.”

Mycroft shut the door, dislodging a cloud of dust, and Sherlock and John were alone in the dim, dusty room.

Sherlock looked around the room. “So, no telly. What to do tonight?”

John stepped forward and was very quickly very close to Sherlock. “I have an idea,” he said, leaning in and plucking at Sherlock’s collar.

Sherlock blushed. “You’re sure?”

John smiled. “From what I’ve heard, our first mission is tomorrow, so if you die tomorrow, after we have this, I’ll never forgive myself it I never got to… well.”

“You’d never forgive yourself anyways.”

“I’d wouldn’t forgive myself more.”

“Not possible,” Sherlock mumbled. John leaned forward and caught Sherlock’s mouth on his, slow and careful.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded and pressed himself closer to John, wrapping his arms around his torso.

“Good,” John said, and pressed their lips together again. This time it was hard and urgent; John’s teeth nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock’s mouth opened willingly. Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth and pressed himself closer yet. John maneuvered them back and sat down hard on the mattress.

“Not the best conditions,” he muttered. “But it’ll do.”

Sherlock couldn’t agree more, but he was too busy straddling John’s lap. They had landed just so he was in the perfect position to do so. They were sitting on the mattress lengthwise, so Sherlock could push John backwards easily. He didn’t yet, though. He cupped John’s face and kissed him thoroughly. John’s hands threaded into his hair and brushed through it. Sherlock groaned and pushed John back.

John landed heavily, and it would’ve knocked the air out of him if he wasn’t already breathless. He pulled Sherlock down on top of him and grinned. His hands explored Sherlock’s back, shoulders, arms, and hips, roaming up and down, fingertips trailing into dips and over curves. “Bloody gorgeous,” he said in between fervent kisses. He kicked his shoes off and Sherlock did too.

Sherlock kissed the grin off John’s face. He wanted to taste his smiles, his laughter, his joy, because there was a chance he might not smile for a long time, or Sherlock wouldn’t be around to see his smiles anymore. His arms were braced on either side of John, and he hated it, because he couldn’t touch, couldn’t memorize every piece of John’s body before it’s too late. He flipped them quickly and remedied the situation.

John is looking down on Sherlock now, and has no idea how it happened. Not that he’s complaining, because now Sherlock’s long fingers roamed over his back and hips and thighs, running teasing lines and spirals everywhere. He moved from kissing Sherlock’s mouth to his jaw, and peppered it with small kisses down to his neck. Sherlock’s lips are bruised and John took the smallest moment to feel proud. He resumed pressing small kisses to Sherlock’s face, and licked a stripe up Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock moaned and tilted his head to give John better access. John placed reverent kisses from collarbone to ear, pausing over the pulse point to feel Sherlock’s rapid heartbeat on his lips.

“Would it be too conspicuous to leave a bruise?” he panted.

“Probably,” Sherlock said. “Shame.”

Though disappointed, John smiled. Sherlock wanted everyone to know he was John’s.

John mouthed back down Sherlock’s neck and pressed a kiss to the dip between his collarbones. He nipped at Sherlock’s collar and Sherlock’s hands immediately left John’s back to work on the buttons.

John sat back and pulled Sherlock up with him, then batted Sherlock’s hands away. He worked down the buttons slowly while Sherlock pulled, annoyed, at the hem of his jumper. Halfway down the shirt, John gave up and pulled the jumper over his head.

“There,” he said, and Sherlock made a little noise of happiness, then started to work on the buttons of John’s shirt while John finished Sherlock’s. Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and John did too, and both were discarded somewhere in the room. John pushed Sherlock back down and kissed a line down his chest to the clasp of his trousers. Sherlock grabbed at his back, fingernails sliding over planes of muscle. Sherlock calmed after a moment, and John flinched when cautious fingertips found his scar and smoothed over it. John shifted his weight and brushed one thumb over Sherlock’s ribs, then down to his hip bone.

Sherlock was still fascinated with John’s scar. John sighed, pretending to be irritated, and turned them on their side, so that Sherlock could still finger the scar but so John could touch too. He brushed his thumbs over Sherlock’s collarbones and nipples. Sherlock shivered, but didn’t stop with the scar. He had moved to the front, too.

“Interested?” John asked.

“Very,” Sherlock said. “You’ll have to let me see this more often.”

“Fine. Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Trousers.”

Sherlock broke out of his trance and stared at John for a moment. He fumbled his trousers off, then started on John’s. John let him this time, and kicked his jeans somewhere.  

This time, neither were on top and they snogged with hands sliding everywhere. John could win Olympic medals in kissing Sherlock. There wasn’t much in the world he would do more tirelessly than kiss the man, slowly, licking, biting, memorizing—it was amazing.

Sherlock would die if it meant he could kiss John for an eternity. In a way, he supposed he had.

For several minutes, it was quiet except for the slide of skin and groans when their cocks brushed through their pants. Eventually, Sherlock found his need a touch too persistent, and hauled John over him.

“Fuck me,” he said through clenched teeth, and tipped his head back.

John ran a hand down the back of Sherlock’s thigh and lifted it to fit over his shoulder. Sherlock’s other leg wrapped around John’s back and pulled him forward. John almost lost his balance, but caught himself.

“Relax,” he grinned.

“You’re moving so slowly,” Sherlock whined.

“If this is our first, and theoretically last, time, I’m going slow.”

Sherlock groaned and nudged John forward again.

“Just hold on, love.”

He spit on his fingers, grimacing at the crudeness of it, and pressed his first finger in. Sherlock threw his head back and John panted. He crooked the finger, and inserted another next to it, moving them up and scissoring.

"Fuck, John, now," Sherlock forced out through clenched teeth.

John removed his fingers and lined up his cock with Sherlock’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, and Sherlock groaned. His hands flailed with nothing to hold onto. John pushed all the way in and Sherlock’s hands found his shoulders and scratched angry red lines across them.

“Fuck, John,” he gasped.

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” John groaned. “So fucking perfect. I can’t kiss you, but God, I want to.”

Sherlock leaned forward as far as he could and braced his head on John’s shoulder. John pressed kisses into his hair over and over, until Sherlock dropped back.

“Fuck, move, John,” Sherlock yelled.

John pulled out and thrust back in, building a steady rhythm. Sherlock writhed under him, cock angry and wet. John pulled out almost completely and thrust back in. Sherlock’s shout was enough to tell him he’d found his prostate. John hit it over and over, until Sherlock couldn’t say anything but babbled versions of John’s name. John managed to reach a hand over and stroke Sherlock’s cock several times. Sherlock shouted, yelled something like John’s name, and came in thick white spurts over John’s hand and his stomach. John only needed a few more erratic thrusts before he came too, spilling inside of Sherlock. Once the white spots faded from his eyes, he pulled out and flopped down next to Sherlock.

“Thank God it’s warm here,” John said, settling back onto the bare mattress.

“I agree,” Sherlock said. “The colder locations have blankets, I think.”

“I hope so,” John said. He turned on his side and pulled Sherlock towards him. Sherlock went willingly and John pressed a kiss into his curls. “G’night, love.”

Sherlock smiled and felt John’s breath even into deep waves against his back. It might’ve been peaceful, if they could die the next day.

Sherlock stared into the dimness, brain simultaneously untamable and yet quiet. John’s chest was pressed to his back, and it felt wonderful, but why did it have to be now? John was his conductor of light, yes, but he also had a talent for quieting his mind, and his mind needed to be nothing but sharp for this entire journey. John would nag him about eating, but he would also gingerly tend to his wounds. He would yell at Sherlock’s risk-taking, but also follow him through any risk. He would moan about tea and telly, but he was John. John would protect him, and he needed protection. John was a soldier, and he needed soldier instincts. John loved him, and he needed motivation. Before, that motivation was to get back to John. Now it’s to stay with John, no matter what.

A nagging thought tugged at the back of Sherlock’s mind. What if he isn’t really in love with you? What if he realizes halfway through that this is ridiculous and overly ambitious and doesn’t care enough about Sherlock to stay and risk his own life?

Sherlock shifted back into John and sighed. John’s arm snaked farther around him and held him tight. Sherlock decided that the fears could wait until morning.


	15. M- Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bleh and fluffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized halfway through this is loosely based on that piece of fanart. If you've seen it, you'll notice it in the fic.

Their first kiss was over Sherlock’s violin.

Sherlock was composing, and asked John to listen to it. John was skeptical—what would Sherlock need his opinion for on this matter? But he sat in his chair and watched Sherlock as he fingers darted over the strings. Sherlock faced him, but his eyes were closed, head tilting into the instrument. He shifted with the rhythm of the music and the bow slid over the strings gracefully, coaxing long, smooth notes and short, choppy tempos from them. John found himself enraptured with the man swaying slightly in front of him. The music drifting towards him was mostly slow, almost sad, fitting of a love ballad. However, now and then, there were parts that were infinitely faster than the rest, high and scratchy and suspenseful. These parts made John’s heart speed up, like he was reading a suspenseful novel or on another chase with Sherlock.

Sherlock finished the melody with a staccato flicking of his wrist. He opened his eyes slowly to see John still staring at him, head resting on his forefinger and thumb, smiling.

“And?” he asked.

“That was beautiful.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock shrugged and lowered the violin.

“I still don’t understand why you had me listen to it, though. You knew I would say that.”

Sherlock huffed and turned to the window. “It was written for you, so I thought it would be fitting that you listen to it.” He stared out the fogged glass at the street below, noticing the monochromatic scene—newspaper over heads to protect them from the rain, black umbrellas shrouding the ground, grey clouds obscuring the tops of skyscrapers.

He flinched when John’s hand touched his shoulder, but didn’t turn. He brushed his thumb over the string of the violin and tried to ignore John’s light tugging.

“Sherlock, turn around.”

Sherlock did, and John dropped his hand.

John was alarmingly close, pupils dilated—though it could be the dim lighting, Sherlock remembered. This probably didn’t have anything to do with _that_ ; John was probably just concerned with his emotional state, and how they couldn’t go on like this if he could write compositions like that for John.

They stared at each other for a long time, locked in another one of their battles of the eyes, dancing along the edge they always danced along. Sherlock wondered if they would ever fall, just plummet over the metaphorical cliff. It was much longer than six seconds, Sherlock’s mind offered up. Sherlock discarded the information—irrelevant.

Slowly, John’s right hand reached up and cupped the side of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock refrained from nudging into the touch no matter how much he wanted to. He needs to speak, needs to clarify, needs to explain.

“J—”

And John’s mouth is over his, and Sherlock didn’t know when he bent his head down but he did, and John is on his tiptoes, and John’s other hand is buried in his hair, and that has no right to feel as good as it does. His grip tightens on the neck of the violin and he does nudge forward this time, pressing against John’s movements, because John needs to know that he wants this, so much.

When they have to break for oxygen, Sherlock is reluctant to move even an inch from John, because here he can smell him, and feel his body heat, and see every freckle that dots John’s nose.

“For or about?” John asks, breathless.

“Both.”

John kisses him again.


	16. O- Oxygen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't notice, I did two Ms by accident. That means you get O and P today.
> 
> 5 Times Sherlock Hated Breathing and 1 Time he Loved Breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both O and P are very sceneless. Lots of exposition, sorry. It's faster to write.

When he was a child, Sherlock loved swimming. His family would go to a lake by his grandparents and his parents would walk hand-in-hand down the beach while his grandparents sat in lounge chairs and watched him and Mycroft. Mycroft would kneel in the thin line of sand and build extravagant castles with an arsenal of buckets and spades and yell when Sherlock splashed him, which wasn’t too often.

While Mycroft preferred staying dry, Sherlock loved the water.

His body was perfect for swimming—broad shoulders that narrowed into a thin waist and hips. He would swim for ages, mostly underwater. He loved how it looked below the surface, wavy and blurry and green. He loved brushing the muddy bottom when he dove deep, and loved drifting just below the surface of the water. He would hold his breath for minutes at a time, just to take in as much of the otherworldly kingdom as he could. He hated that he had to come up for air, break his concentration, and go back down again. It was horribly tedious; it would be much more efficient if he didn’t have to breathe at all.

When Sherlock was much older, he hated breathing for a much different reason. He always held his breath when pushing the needle into his skin, depriving the blood of oxygen and giving himself a lovely light-headed sensation. Combined with the drugs, the high was exponentially more enjoyable, and he hated breathing because it meant the end of the dizzy, light, breathless and drugged feeling, and he would have to wait for the next dose to do it again.

When Sherlock was “dead,” he was on a mission in the Ukraine when he hated breathing with the same passion he had before in his life. He was mere inches from the man he had to take down, behind a thin rice-paper shield in the darkness. The only giveaway would be sound, and he suddenly realized how loud he was breathing. He shut his mouth and held his breath, praying it would be enough. It was—the man stayed where he was, and Sherlock could take him down with only a little difficulty due to his light-headed rush.

When Sherlock returned, he hated breathing for two reasons.

First, John was very, very quiet when Sherlock showed up at his door. Very quiet. It seemed rude that his chest continued to rise and fall despite the stillness of the exchange. He wished he could stop breathing, still completely, and just wait to be unfrozen by John’s words, be they the sun or a vicious ice pick.

Secondly, after John spoke, Sherlock wished, not for the first time in his life, that he could stop breathing completely. Not just momentarily, not just to fit the situation, but really just stop breathing, lay down, and stop living. He tried once, passed out, and woke hours later with a pounding headache and heartbeat.

When John kissed him, Sherlock didn’t want to breathe. If he couldn’t breathe, they would never have to break the kiss, and they would never have to break the moment, and John would never realize his mistake. Sherlock did his best, but John broke first, breathing heavily. Then, to Sherlock’s surprise, he kissed Sherlock again, with the same fervor as the previous kiss.

Sherlock has wished that they didn’t have to breathe during each kiss after the first. He never wanted to stop kissing John, never wanted to feel that stupid burn in his chest that meant they needed to stop for air. He hated the human necessity, and wished there was some way to eradicate it.

 

Some months after they started dating, Sherlock found his face buried in John’s shoulder while they watched telly on the sofa. He inhaled deeply and noticed that he could smell John the best here—tea and coffee and cologne and home. He burrowed closer and breathed in again and again. He loved breathing now that he knew how best to breathe. A filter of John-scent was preferable to any other, and he finally realized why John loved taking his scarf when it was cold outside.


	17. P- Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble about John loving Sherlock

John had known quite a few of pretty girls in his day. He’d dated them, shagged them, loved them, and either been broken up with, or broken up with them.

None of them compared to Sherlock.

Sherlock was gorgeous, in an ethereal, forbidden way. Cheekbones that looked like a middle-school sketch with the ridiculous shadows, heart-shaped lips like in a fashion magazine, and the curls that every woman wants. And his eyes—Jesus. They were like a kaleidoscope, quite literally every color of the rainbow. John could stare into them for hours, not in a sexual way, but just examining them from every angle, in every light, watching the rainbows dance around his pupils.

And that was just his face.

John had nearly forgotten to breathe when he saw Sherlock’s body, all of it, for the first time. Sherlock’s body matched his face perfectly. Long, pale, and far too thin for John’s taste. He found Sherlock attractive—extremely so—but he was nearly Sherlock’s parent with how often he had to nag him to eat or drink or try to be safe. So, when he could count Sherlock’s ribs from a few feet away, he frowned, not because he didn’t like Sherlock’s body, but because John was disappointed in himself for not doing as well a job as he should have been.

Seconds later, John realized his terrible decision to frown, because he had to spend the next twenty minutes assuring Sherlock that John still loved him.

Beyond the man’s awful eating habits, there were an almost limitless number of areas on Sherlock’s body that John was incredibly pleased with. He made a list once, on his personal drafts on the blog, and it went something like this:

_Neck. Almost obscene. Beautiful, more than usual, when decorated with purple love bites. He leaves his collar down these days, and never says anything about it._

_Collarbones. Prominent—he should eat more—but lovely to bite and caress and feel shift when he moves._

_Forearms. Thin, but so strong, and yet easy to grasp and pin. He should wear short sleeves more often._

_Navel. He makes the best sounds when I kiss it, different sounds than anywhere else. Investigate._

_Backs of thighs. Smoother than should be allowed, all lithe muscle and so goddamn long._

_Ankles. Almost like the forearms in composition, but I don’t know why I like them so much. I just do, and he sure likes it when I pay them attention._

_Feet. Ticklish._

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock had seen the page, but bet it was likely when Sherlock made sure to expose each area of John’s affection more than usual the next time they were in bed. He also began wearing short sleeves without the dressing gown, but that just made him cold and in his infinite stubbornness just wrapped himself around John at any possible moment. John couldn’t say he minded.

When they had sex, John lavished Sherlock in compliments of his beauty. Sherlock liked the comments, but rarely believed their truth. He once made the mistake of denying John’s comments, and John felt the need to prove him wrong in the most incredible way.

_“About what you said.”_

_“Hm?”_

_“It’s not true.”_

_“What’s not?”_

_“I’m not beautiful. You might think so, but one opinion does not make fact.”_

_John turned on his side, squishing the pillow down. Sherlock continued to lay on his back, staring at the ceiling._

_“Come here.”_

_Sherlock looked over at John, saw his serious brow, and complied. John cupped Sherlock’s jaw with one hand and wrapped the other around the man’s back, and drew him in for a long kiss._

_“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” John said when they broke for breath. He flipped them with Sherlock on bottom and kissed him again, quickly, alternating short kisses with compliments. “The most beautiful person, really.”_

_Sherlock blushed and craned his head towards John’s._

_“What do you care what others think? I’m the only opinion that matters now, Sherlock Holmes.”_

_Sherlock writhed under John and flung his arms around John’s neck._

_“If I say you’re beautiful, you are. And I say so, rather adamantly._

_Sherlock’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, eyebrows quirked, lips bruised, and the raw emotion in his face made John want to never, ever, ever let go of this spectacular man._

_“I love you, goddammit.”_

_“I love you too,” Sherlock gasped, and John let Sherlock pull him into another kiss._

~

They were on a case together not long after, and one of the people they had to interview was a female bartender. When they left, Sherlock commented,

“She was pretty.”

“You’re—”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t recognize it,” Sherlock said.

“You’re right. She was pretty. But not as pretty as you,” John said, grinning. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and swung their arms almost gleefully. Sherlock shook his head and mirrored John’s grin.


	18. Q- Quilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *when your own fic gives you feels*

Their first Christmas together, John got Sherlock a quilt. They sat under the tree John had insisted on, sipping the tea John had made, snacking on the nibbles John and Mrs. Hudson had placed on the table, and Sherlock was happy.

“Go on, open mine first. No deducing, now. Just open it.”

Sherlock smirked and tugged at the ribbon holding the messy wrapping paper around the blanket—shit, he hadn’t meant to do that, really. The paper fell off the sides of the package and into Sherlock’s lap. There was a card on top, and he lifted it off. He put it beside him and picked up the blanket—no, quilt. He shook it out and held it in front of him. Some of the squares were a bit uneven, and some of the stitches were messy or broken, and the colors were far too bright and horribly matched.

“Mrs. Hudson helped me make it,” John said. “I thought, since you’re always cold, it’d be good. I was just going to buy one, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t let me, said I should make it. Sorry if it’s a bit shite, I’ve never been great at sewing.”

Sherlock lowered the blanket and looked at John. “I…like it,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s very much appreciated.”

“Alright, then.” John grinned. “Alright. Shall I open mine now, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, reaching over to where he had stashed John’s gift under the tree. He handed John the box, roughly the size of his forearm, and John took it with a grin.

“No body parts, then?” John laughed and shook the box. It clattered about in a distinct rush of parts. “Sherlock, is this—”

John ripped open the wrapping paper and threw large strips behind him. Eventually, the uncovered box sat in his lap and he looked up at Sherlock in awe.

“Sherlock, I’m a grown man.”

“I talked to Harry, and she said they were your favorite when you were little.”

“Legos?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re impossible to find a gift for.” He flung his new quilt over his shoulders and wrapped it tight. He noticed vaguely that it still smelled a bit like John.

“No, I- thank you. No one’s gotten me these since I was what, five? I loved them, and then things at home sort of… well.”

Sherlock nodded. “So, you like it?”

“So much. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled.

~

Later, John sat on the sitting room floor, building the Lego kit and complaining about tiny, confusing directions. Now and then, he would throw pieces at Sherlock, lounging on the sofa in his new quilt, for his longer fingers to build or tear apart, depending. It was all very calm, and Sherlock was surprised that he was rather content with the domestic-ness of it all.

Mrs. Hudson came up once, offering Christmas food, but was turned down by a grinning John who made sure to emphasize the true quantity of food they already had—more than was usually in the fridge over a month. She left after a few minutes, and commented on Sherlock’s quilt before disappearing down the stairs.

~

Sherlock took to wearing the quilt nearly everywhere instead of his sheets. He would wrap it around himself while watching telly, or while on his laptop, or while thinking on the sofa. He slept with it pulled tight around his shoulders when he did sleep, and become so accustomed to its familiar weight that he was uncomfortable sleeping with anything else. John’s scent wore off it a few days after Christmas, but Sherlock didn’t care. John had made this, for him, and it had taken time and effort, no matter how garish it was, so he loved it.

~

John was on a trip to a conference and Sherlock was bored out of his skull. He was bored of talking to a skull, he was bored of the noise inside his skull, and he was bored of the case with the “mysterious” skull— barely a four. He was so bored that he was rooting through the mess of the flat, trying to find something to do.

The quilt billowed down around him as he dropped to the floor, sweeping his hand under the sofa. Nothing, nothing, dust, nothing—wait. His fingers scrabbled for the piece of cardstock, and he pulled it out.

It was John’s card from last Christmas. He blew the dust off and opened it.

_Sherlock:_

_Thank you. I know I’m giving you the gift, but thank you. I was so alone, and you saved me from all of that. You gave me a life worth living, and cured my limp, and showed me the battlefield again. You gave me meaning again, so I think the least I can do for you is make you a quilt._

At the bottom, in small, unsure letters, were three words:

_I love you._

And below that:

_Merry Christmas, Sherlock._

_\--John_

 

Sherlock stared at the card for a long time. And then the door slammed.

“Sherlock?”

John set his bag down in the kitchen and walked into the sitting room. His eyes fell on Sherlock, and he smiled.

“What are you reading?”

“Your card.”

John froze. “Thought you’d lost that.”

“I had. Got bored. Found it.”

“Well.” John nodded, and turned back to the kitchen for his bag.

Sherlock sprung up and strode over, so when John turned back around, Sherlock was inches from him.

“You realize printing words smaller actually draws more attention to them,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I realize that now,” John said.

Sherlock watched John for a few seconds, just to confirm. Then, carefully, he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on John’s lips.

John craned up on his toes, and his bag fell to the floor, and the quilt swirled around them as hands reached up to cup jaws and hips met hips. Eventually, they ended up in the bedroom, the quilt tossed to the corner with their clothes.

 


	19. R- Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> take a wild guess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i grappled with the word for this one for a while, but settled on this. i think it'll go okay, but that's up to you guys' opinons

When Sherlock returned, John thought he was seeing ghosts.

Sometimes, he still thinks that.

Seeing Sherlock around the flat is so unusual that oftentimes, just seeing him isn’t enough. John knows what the brain can do when grieving, and this is number one on the list—seeing the dead loved one.

Funny thing is, John had already passed that stage.

Just weeks after Sherlock had died, John had seen the man everywhere. He would think he’d spotted a familiar head of hair in a crowd, but then find it was just someone else. He would think he’d just seen the Belstaff whirl around the corner, but when he turned, there was nothing there. It was torture, and John thought it’d ended.

And then Sherlock had “returned.”

“Returned,” because John wasn’t sure. He could stare at Sherlock all he wanted, and never be sure. It wasn’t enough. So one day, John tried something else.

Sherlock was bent over John’s laptop, scrolling through a long list of pictures. John leaned over to see, and placed his hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. He could feel the warmth radiating from the man, feel the material of his shirt, feel the end of his collarbone, and feel his muscles shift as Sherlock rolled his shoulders slightly. John nodded at the screen, lifted his hand, and walked away.

Later, maybe that day, maybe that week—looking back, it was all very unclear—John decided that was what he needed to remember that Sherlock was real. So he began making excuses to touch Sherlock as often as he could.

A sweep of his hand through Sherlock’s hair was to get a piece of lint, for instance. A brush of his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone was to get a splash of blood or mud or an eyelash. To get Sherlock off the sofa, he started pulling him physically—albeit gently—off instead of just shouting.

And every time, every single time he had to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, he put his hand there, just to be sure.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

~

On June fifteenth, John had a nightmare.

It was not about the war, though in a way, it was. It was not concrete, nor clear, but John knew, inherently, that it was terrifying.

It was red. It was red on black wool and red on blue silk and red on concrete. It was the bite of cold air and pain—so much pain. It was dark and it was screaming.

And then John was screaming himself awake, sitting up panting and sweating on his bed and curling his hands into the sheets and hoping Sherlock wasn’t home.

 

On June fifteenth, Sherlock heard John have a nightmare.

It wasn’t the first he had heard, but it was the first since his return. Before, he would have played his violin. But that was before, and now it might make it all worse.

Because of course Sherlock had noticed the touches, and of course he knew what they meant.

So he didn’t play his violin, and he didn’t think to make tea, he just rushed towards John’s room, and then stood awkwardly in the doorway, realizing that perhaps he shouldn’t have intruded.

 

It took John a while to focus on the figure standing in his doorway. He did his best to control his breathing before addressing Sherlock—or rather, Sherlock waited for John to control his breathing before addressing him, because the first words spoken were,

“John?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. You can go back to whatever.” John waved his hand vaguely.

“Don’t apologize.”

“Yeah, but, it’s just—never mind.”

“What?” Sherlock ventured inside the room.

“Nothing, I- I don’t know.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. He was silhouetted in the light from the doorway, and John could barely see his face.

“It’s just—I don’t know, you know?”

Sherlock nodded. He did. He often wondered himself if this was real, or if he had died and this was some sort of twisted heaven where John let him back into his life, but nothing else, where they carried on as they always had, just with a lot more doubt.

John sighed. “You can go, I’m fine, really.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“Evid—Sherlock, it’s not a crime scene.”

“So? Am I wrong?”

John sighed again. “No, no, I suppose not. Never are, you git. If you want to stay, be my guest.”

Sherlock nodded again. What did he do now? He had gotten to this point, but what was considerate now?

“Well, are you just going to sit there all night?” John threw back a triangle of blankets on Sherlock’s side and scooted over.

“Technically morning,” Sherlock corrected.

“Shit, really? At any rate, get in, it’s cold.”

“You don’t need to offer excuses,” Sherlock mumbled. He laid down as he was told, but was again at a standstill. He was actually in John’s bed, and this would be brilliant if it wasn’t so awful. He lay rigid, until John was again the answer to his thoughts.

John turned on his side, towards Sherlock, and shuffled towards him. He put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and his arm across Sherlock’s chest.

“You don’t mind, do you?” John asked.

“Not at all,” Sherlock said, bringing his arm over to hold John’s torso to his.

~

Both were confused when they woke the next morning with their arms and legs tangled, chests pressed together, and heads stacked. Neither minded, and that morning fell into place rather nicely.

Sherlock placed a tentative kiss on John’s brow when the other man woke, and was startled when John’s lips were suddenly on his, seeking in a wonderful way. But John refused to do anything else before breakfast, and so he made toast and tea and Sherlock ate without complaint. They ended up on the sofa watching telly, with Sherlock fit neatly between John’s legs, his head tucked under John’s chin, and John’s arms holding his chest, when John finally asked.

“You’re real, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John’s arms squeezed him a little bit tighter, just for an instant, as if in reassurance.


	20. S- Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst
> 
> alsotheydon'tkissinthisonesobewarned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I briefly considered going with a parent!lock S- Surrogate, but that deserves more than a chapter.  
> then i started writing some schmoop for 'sofa,' but i think this is better

Sherlock Holmes is 76.8-percent sure he is in love with John Watson. He might’ve died tonight. Unlikely, but there was a chance. But he hadn’t. And part of the reason why he hadn’t was because John Watson killed Jeff Hope.

He killed Jeff Hope for Sherlock, after knowing him less than a week, less than a work-week, just forty-eight hours after meeting him. Not only that, but he was clever enough to find where Sherlock was, and got there fast enough, and made the shot quickly and accurately enough.

And for that, Sherlock is endlessly enraptured with the man walking next to him to the Chinese restaurant down the street.

~

John Watson is 100-percent sure that Sherlock Holmes is the most incredible man he’s ever met. Let there be hellfire if he was letting this amazing man bypass him, this man that offered him a new life, a life worth living; a man who showed him the battlefield again, but so much better. This is all why John has no hesitation when he pulls the trigger and saves Sherlock’s life.

~

Sherlock has no idea what to do. He’s never had a friend before. He wasn’t sure why he tried so hard to be John’s friend when they first met, but he had. Maybe it was because John offered his phone. Maybe it was because John wasn’t disgusted when Sherlock deduced him. Whatever it was, he had tried to be nice.

And this is what he got.

A pile of messy, unwarranted, confusing feelings. And the worst part was that he had nothing to compare the feelings to. He had no idea if they were friend-feelings, or more-than-friend-feelings, because they weren’t one-night-stand-feelings, far from.

~

Living with Sherlock was odd. But it was always exciting and interesting, so even when Sherlock pissed him off so much he had to go and spend the night at Sarah’s, he always came back. He had to. There was a pull, even as he dated other women, which brought him back to Sherlock time and time again. Sherlock was the first priority in his life, and it was not helping his love life.

It also wasn’t helping his love life that he might be in love with the asexual bastard.

~

The Fall.

Ah, yes, the Fall.

~

Sherlock had plenty of time to sort through his feelings on freezing nights and during parched stakeouts. Through this intense thought, he realized that his feelings were not friend-feelings, but definitely more-than-friend-feelings. Love-feelings. Love-feelings for his straight flatmate that hated his existence since he had returned from his “death.”

Ah, yes, _shit._

~

Sherlock was alive.

And Sherlock was still asexual.

And John was still in love with Sherlock.

On stag night, he tried. He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, and he leaned forward, and then he chickened out and sat back, because that was a bit not good altogether.

~

Even drunk, Sherlock could tell how close John was. He wished John could lean forward a bit more, because he wasn’t married yet, and maybe, just maybe—

And John leaned back.

_Shit, buggering, fuck._

~

Mary died.

John didn’t know what to do.

Neither did Sherlock.

The baby had died too, and John really didn’t know what to do.

Sherlock really didn’t know what to do either.

John had just shown up at the flat, tears in his eyes, and Sherlock knew. He made tea, and probably fucked it up, but it was okay because John didn’t drink it anyway. He just sat at the table, with his head in his hands, and didn’t cry. He just sat there, and Sherlock sat helplessly next to him, and they stayed that way until the early hours of the morning.

And then, around three, Sherlock spoke.

“You should sleep.”

“You should sleep,” was John’s immediate reply.

“I slept already this week. Clearly, you haven’t.”

John lifted his head. “No shit. Thanks for that.”

“Shit, no I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse.”

“Usually not necessary.”

“How did you mean it, then?”

“Just… you should sleep. That’s all. If you thought I was saying you don’t look good, I wasn’t. You always look good.”

“Wow, cursing and a compliment in one night. There really is a first time for everything.”

Sherlock nodded. “Sleep?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. But only if you sleep too.”

“If you insist.”

John stood up and turned for the stairs. Sherlock stood too, and John was almost at the stairs when he turned back. Sherlock paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“Sherlock, would you—never mind.”

“What?”

John took a deep breath and looked away. “Would- would you mind coming upstairs with me? For the rest of the night, I mean? It’s just, I don’t really want to be alone right now and—”

“Of course.”

John suppressed a little smile. “Great, then. Ah, you can get changed and meet me up there, if that works.”

“It does.”

~

Sherlock was about to spend the night in John’s room. Presumably, his bed as well. Shit, shit, shit.

~

John couldn’t believe he’d done that. He couldn’t believe he’d asked Sherlock that, and Sherlock had said yes, with barely any thought. It was too much to wish for.

 

Sherlock was quiet coming up the steps, but John heard him despite it, and made sure to be sitting in bed with a book so it wasn’t too awkward. The bedside lamp was the only source of light in the room, and it cast harsh shadows on Sherlock’s face as he stood in the doorway, looking down at John.

Neither said anything for a long moment. Then John threw back the covers.

“Can’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

Sherlock climbed in obediently, and John tossed the book on the floor and clicked off the light.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”


	21. T- Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tattoo!lock is my favorite and damn i hope you like this  
> i've never been to a tattoo parlor so i did my best  
> and wifi went out last night sorry

On one of their first cases together, sometimes after the cabbie, there was a murder near a tattoo shop. Sherlock, though focused on solving the case, noticed John’s eyes darting towards the shop now and then. After he had rattled off the list of all the information Lestrade would need to find the killer, he met John outside the tape.

“Do you want to go over?”

John looked up at Sherlock, confused. “Where?”

“The tattoo shop. You’ve been eyeing it all afternoon.”

“Oh. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I was thinking of getting another one myself.”

“Another one?” John asked as they walked towards the small shop wedged between a pub and a drugstore.

“Yes. I have four.”

“What of?”

“You’ll see.” Sherlock pulled open the door for John and stepped in behind him. The man at the front desk greeted them and Sherlock and John looked at the designs posted around the shop.

“Anything particular in mind?” the man asked. His name tag read Andrew.

“Yes,” John and Sherlock said at the same time.

“Well, that’s great. I’ll take you two back and you can meet your artists.”

John nodded and he and Sherlock followed Andrew farther into the shop, towards the private rooms.

“What style do ya’ll want? Cartoon, realistic—”

“Typography,” Sherlock said.

“Same,” John agreed.

“That’s easy, then. You, what’s your name?”

“Sherlock.”

“You, Sherlock, can see Thomas. And you—”

“John.”

“You can see Matthew. Both great guys.”

“Thank you,” John said, and Andrew pointed at their respective rooms.

~

Sherlock sat down in the chair, coat and shirt still on, and Thomas rolled over to him in a swivel chair. They shook hands.

“What can I do for you today?”

“I want a date. As a tattoo.”

“Yes, I assumed,” Thomas said. “What date?”

“Twenty-nine one.”

Thomas pulled a piece of paper over from his desk and placed it on the small table next to the chair. “Like this?” He wrote “29/1” on the paper.

“Sort of. I want it vertical, so—” Sherlock adjusted the design.

“Ah. Got it. Any particular font?”

“Simple. Sans-serif.”

“Alright. Let me do up a stencil. Where will it be?”

“Side.”

“Care to show me?”

Sherlock slipped the Belstaff off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. Thomas gave him a small box and he put his clothes inside. He then raised his arm and traced over his ribs on the left side. “Just here.”

“I won’t have to worry about your pain, then,” Thomas said, taking note of the half-sleeve on Sherlock’s right side.

“I should think not.”

“Right. I can do that. It might be a bit difficult, since you’re so thin, but it’s doable.”

“Good. Stencil?”

“Right. Yeah.” Thomas picked up a tablet and pen and sketched a design in small, neat strokes. “How big do you want it?”

“Small.”

“Alright. This good?” He showed Sherlock the tablet.

“Actually, I’d like to add something else.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Put—” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Put February second to the left of it, same format.”

Thomas drew a few more strokes. “Like this?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

“Awesome. I’ll get it sent off to the printer, and I’ll be right back.”

Thomas left the room and Sherlock sat back, tracing the music clef on his hip.

~

It turned out that Matthew was friendly. Very friendly. Almost alarmingly friendly. He had fluorescent pink hair and hugged John instead of shaking his hand, and John silently thanked Andrew for sending him to Matthew and not Sherlock.

“So, what do you want?”

“Well,” John said, “I have this scar on my back, so I want to get a tattoo under it with the date it happened.”

“Can I see? To get a better idea?”

“Yeah.” John pulled off his jumper and shirt, and turned so Matthew could see. He was a bit self-conscious of it already, so when Matthew tried to touch it, John couldn’t help moving away.

“Can you… not? It’s a bit silly, since you’ll have a razor under it soon, but can you not?”

“Right, sorry. You’re sure it won’t hurt too much?”

“Not much more than the wound itself.”

Matthew chuckled. “Fair enough. Sit; let’s do up a design.”

In a matter of minutes, they had decided on flowy text that looped under the scar in two lines. The first was the date that John was shot, and the second was the date he had met Sherlock—the meaning of the second he didn’t tell Matthew, for whatever reason. Matthew sent the design to the printer and John sat back in the chair.

~

Matthew and Thomas met at the printer.

“What’s yours getting?” Matthew asked.

“Just a couple dates,” Thomas said, checking his work.

“So’s mine,” Matthew said.

“Really? What dates?”

“The day he got shot, and 29/1. He didn’t tell me that one’s meaning.”

“No shit! Mine’s getting 29/1, but then he added 2/2. What do you think it means?”

“No idea.” The two exchanged a look, then went back to their clients.

~

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded and the needle pierced his skin. It was barely anything compared to the half-sleeve, but Thomas still talked him through it.

“Just look away. Yeah, there, so you don’t flinch. Even if it doesn’t hurt much, your brain’ll still make you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

“So,” Thomas said, as he finished the second two. “The man you came in with.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes?”

Thomas pressed the needle down for the one. “Well, I might be out of line telling you this, but he’s getting the same date, one twenty-nine.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Saw Matthew at the printer. He showed me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

~

John hissed at the needle. True, he was used to it, but it had been a while.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“So, your mate you came in with.”

“Sherlock? What about him?”

“He’s getting almost the same tattoo. One twenty-nine.”

“Really?”

“Yep. If you don’t mind me asking, what does it mean?”

“It’s the day we met.”

~

They met at the front desk afterwards. John’s tattoo took a bit longer, but Sherlock was happy to wait. He was still shirtless, and leaned against the counter with his shirt and coat as a buffer. When John came out of his room, Sherlock could swear he saw John’s eyes light up. He walked over and grinned.

“You did say I’d see, didn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. “I did. Like them?”

“These are really masterful.”

“Back-alley tattoos are overrated.” Sherlock watched John’s eyes roam from his half-sleeve of variously shaded yellow hexagons, to the black music clef on his hip, to the four birds under his collarbone.

“Where’s the fourth?”

“My ankle. It’s boring, my first.” He tugged his trouser leg up. “Crescent moon.”

“It’s still great,” John said. “Where’s your new one, then?”

Sherlock lifted his left arm and John grinned. “Twenty-nine one. I have it too.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t deduce that.”

“Thomas told me.”

“Ah. Matthew told me. What’s the two-two, though? It’s the same year, and I don’t remember anything happening that day.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and put his arm down. “That was the day I resolved to stop using. Permanently. Exceptions only when absolutely necessary.”

And John gave him that grin that he saved for extra-brilliant deductions.

“I showed you mine. Where’s your tattoo?”

John put his jumper on the counter and unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped it off and turned around.

Sherlock grinned. Just under John’s scar were the date he was shot and the date they met, in the same loopy text.

“Very nice.”

“I think so too.”

He turned and Sherlock noticed the RAMC tattoo on his right bicep and the stars scattered over his right hip before John put his shirt back on. Sherlock followed suit as a punk couple came in, grinning and kissing. They paid, and Sherlock rushed them out before the couple started snogging over the tattoo artist.

~

They walked home. It was clear out, and not too cold. At some point after the halfway point, John took Sherlock’s hand in his own without any comment. Sherlock stared down at their hands, but John didn’t say anything, so Sherlock didn’t either.

When they got home, and John pressed a little kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before going to make tea, he didn’t say anything, and neither did Sherlock.

When they sat down to watch telly and Sherlock decided to try to snog John and John let him, Sherlock didn’t say anything and neither did John.

When John decided to go to bed and took Sherlock’s hand and led him to bed with him, not to have sex, but just to sleep, he didn’t say anything and neither did Sherlock.

Nothing needed to be said.


	22. U- Ugly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trans!lock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've been reading a lot of trans/genderqueer!lock fics lately, and they've hit me and my gender issues pretty hard, so i tried my hand at it

Sherlock had always struggled with his body image. He has suspicions that even if he had been born the man he identified as, he would still have body image issues. His face was too long, and his jaw was too weak, and too many wrinkles formed when he smiled. His hands were disproportionate, and generally, Sherlock was at peace with the descriptor, “ugly.”

 

_“Please, can we not do this, this time?”_

_“What?”_

_“You, with your… cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”_

_“I don’t do that.”_

_“Yeah, you do.”_

And then there was John. John, with his kind, genuine smile and honest blue eyes. John, who was as gentle as he was violent. John, who was beautiful.

It didn’t help.

~

“Can you not be so gorgeous?”

Sherlock startled, froze, and knit his eyebrows together. John was staring at him from the sofa, a touch exasperated, his book in his lap with his thumb marking the page.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, you. At least stop staring at me. I can’t read when you’re doing that. It’s distracting.”

“What do you suggest I do? If you consider me ‘gorgeous,’ there’s not much lower I can stoop.”

It was John’s turn to look confused. “Do you not think you’re attractive?”

“This isn’t something I’m told friends discuss.”

“Well, sod that, this is more important.”

“Trust me, it’s not. I’m at peace with my appearance, even if I don’t like it.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, but confidence is healthy.”

“Healthy is boring.”

“Not the best thing to tell your doctor. Come here.”

“Why?”

“For God’s sake, just do it.”

Sherlock reluctantly crossed the room to sit on the opposite side of the couch. He looked at John expectantly with an eyebrow raised.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

John nodded. “Fine, then. That’s alright. But I’m here, whenever you want or need to.”

Sherlock nodded and turned on the telly.

~

Weeks later, when John kissed him, Sherlock couldn’t say he was surprised. He was surprised, of course, that John liked him and wanted him and found him beautiful, but he had seen it coming, at least a little. What surprised him the most was after their first time together, he and John were lying in bed, and Sherlock spoke.

“I’m not cis.” He mumbled it into John’s shoulder, ashamed. Why should John accept him?

John gently lifted Sherlock’s face to look into his. “What, then?”

Sherlock looked away. “Trans. Post-surgery, obviously.”

“So he/him are acceptable pronouns?”

Sherlock looked back at John and furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes. I expect you have other questions.”

“Nope. That’s all I need to know.”

Sherlock burrowed his head back in John’s shoulder and smiled.

“Actually, one.”

Sherlock’s heart dropped.

“You know it’s fine, right? You’re safe here? That I don’t care what you wear or identify as, as long as you’re comfortable?”

A grin lit up Sherlock’s face and he kissed John. John kissed back around his own smile, and wondered if life could get better.

~

Evidently, yes, it could.

Sherlock knew that many found him ugly, either for his appearance or his transition. John didn’t, and that was one of the best things he could have hoped for. But as far as Sherlock knew, John was cis and therefore would have a difficult time understanding some of the complexities of gender. But he was okay with that, until one Saturday morning.

 

John sipped his tea, bit his lip, and looked over at Sherlock. He looked back down at the paper, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I’m not cis either, by the way.”

Sherlock looked up sharply from his experiment. He couldn’t tell if John was just messing with him, but given John being John, Sherlock guessed he was serious.

“You don’t have to ask. I assume you want to know, though. I’m agender, but I’ve never had any dysmorphia. I went through an androgynous phase in college, but it was honestly a lot of effort, and jumpers are more my style anyway.”

Sherlock blinked several times. “So—pronouns?”

“I had some mates that used ‘they’ after I came out, but most used ‘he,’ and honestly, I don’t have a preference. He works just as well as any other.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that tugged on the side of his mouth.

“You do understand,” he murmured.

John grinned. “Of course, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is loosely based on me (i'm genderfluid, but don't have a pronoun preference) fyi
> 
> sorry for the cheesy ending i kinda wanted to continue but eh


	23. V- Venti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coffee shop au!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John would be in his second year of uni; Sherlock his first  
> implied that John is out as bisexual  
> typical teen (well, 19-20ish) John is madly attracted to super gorgeous teen Sherlock

“Vanilla venti Frappuccino,” the boy on the other side of the counter said. He looked away, put his hands in his pockets and swished overgrown black curls from his face.

“Four sixty-three,” John said. The boy turned around and handed him a debit card. John rung it up and handed the card back. “Name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Need I wait, or will you bring it to the table?”

“I can bring it over,” John said. “No problem.”

The boy—Sherlock—nodded and went to sit at the corner booth that looked out onto the street.

John looked over and tapped Molly, the girl working the counter with him, on the shoulder. She looked over.

“That bloke over there—does he come here often?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “He’s cute, don’t you think? He orders the same thing every time. Shame, he could use some food.”

John didn’t respond, but stared after the boy for a while, then Molly had Sherlock’s drink ready and brought it over before John could take it from her and deliver it himself.

~

Such business carried on for the next couple months. John discovered through attempts at small talk that Sherlock went to Bart’s, while John was taking courses at the local community college until he had enough money to transfer and finish being trained as a doctor there. He also learned that Sherlock worked freelance as a detective for New Scotland Yard, and the shop was his stakeout place of choice. John once asked him why he never ordered anything to eat, but Sherlock just scoffed and said eating slowed him down.

John often watched Sherlock from the counter. There was definitely a mysterious look about him, with his long coat and dark curly hair that contrasted perfectly with ivory skin. And in the daylight of the window, John always noticed a different color in the boy’s eyes whenever he delivered Sherlock’s drink.

~

One day, John decided he’d had enough. It was the umpteenth time Sherlock had come into the shop, ordered the same drink, chatted quietly with John—apparently something he only did with John, according to Molly—and sat in the window booth. It was frustrating, seeing all that beauty pass him by every day, so John scooped up a scone from the window, grabbed Sherlock’s drink, and went over to the window. He slid into the booth seat across from Sherlock and set down the drink and food.

Sherlock looked over. “I didn’t order that,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He reached for his wallet, presumably to get out his receipt.

“I know you didn’t,” John said. “It’s on the house. You never eat anything, and it’s a shame; you really should.”

“Eating slows me down, you know that.”

“I know that’s bullshit,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, picked up the scone, and turned his head back to the window.

“So—” John began, thinking that if he was here, he should try flirting, but was interrupted by Sherlock springing to his feet and rushing out the door. John sat in stunned silence for a moment—he’d been declined, but he’d never had anyone run away at his attempts to flirt. He stood up, a tad dejected, and noticed the object on the seat Sherlock had occupied minutes before.

It was Sherlock’s wallet.

John picked up the small leather wallet and jogged to the front of the store. Sherlock was in the distance, a few feet from a man twice his width. John glanced at Molly, who shrugged, and then he dropped his apron on the counter and ran after the boy.

John was extremely glad for his rugby endurance training at that moment, because dodging around irritated Londoners on a rapid chase after a boy who had just run away from you should have been much more demanding physically than it was for John. It took him a matter of minutes to catch up and see Sherlock be dragged into an alleyway by the man. He followed, against his better judgement, pushing Sherlock’s wallet into his back pocket.

In the dim light, he could see that the man and Sherlock were alone, and predictably, the man had overpowered the twig of a boy and had him in a headlock. They had their backs to John, and without thinking, John ran forward and tackled the man. Caught off guard, the man stumbled back in surprise and let go of a wheezing Sherlock. John had him pinned against the wall quickly and managed an awkward right hook that knocked him out. He let the man slide to the ground and glanced over at Sherlock.

Sherlock was bent over, gasping, thumbing quickly at his mobile.

“I really hope you’re calling the police.”

Sherlock managed a nod, and John grinned, kicking the man on the ground lightly.

~

Minutes later, sirens filled the street and John and Sherlock were herded out of the alley. Sherlock was inspected by paramedics while John waited outside the parade of officials. Eventually, Sherlock made his way out and towards John.

“Thank you, for what you did, back there. It was, ah, helpful.”

“Anytime.” John smiled.

“Why’d you run after me, though?”

John smiled a little wider and drew Sherlock’s wallet out of his back pocket. “You forgot your wallet.”

“I would’ve returned for it, you realize.”

John raised his eyebrow.

“Fine, your assistance was, as I said, helpful.”

John chuckled and Sherlock, to John’s delight, joined him.

“So,” John started, as they walked away from the scene, “Would you like to have coffee some time?”

“I believe I’ve just had some.”

“No, like—” John laughed awkwardly. “Like, a date. People ask people for coffee on a date.”

“How mundane.”

“So, no?”

“To the coffee or to the date?”

“Coffee. I think you’d find it much more interesting if I chose the date.”

~

The date ended up being a crime scene. Sherlock was incredibly pleased, and John was, in fact, incredibly interested. Sherlock solved it quickly, and on John’s suggestion they went for coffee.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Sherlock said, looking into his coffee.

“’Course,” John said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just—I’ve never been on a- a date before, and I wasn’t sure quite what to do.”

“You did wonderfully,” John said, and stood up. He offered his hand, and Sherlock took it and stood up as well. “Just one thing.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together and John smiled. He put his coffee down, grabbed Sherlock’s lapels, and pulled him down for a kiss.


	24. W- Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be late, like 90% of the time, but you guys get the better quality out of it. promise.
> 
> btw if you don't know you should 100% check the tags every time i post smtg bc if there's something new i add it to the tags so

Sherlock Holmes waited eighteen years for a friend. Then, he waited another eighteen for one that wasn’t an absolute arsehole.

 

John Watson waited thirteen years for his first girlfriend, only to discover that he liked the bloke in his maths class a bit more.

 

Sherlock waited thirty-six years for a home that he felt he truly belonged in.

 

John waited four years after he came out to move out and live where he was accepted.

 

Sherlock waited eighteen years to finally have the reading material he wanted for the job he needed, officially.

 

John waited so fucking long to finally be a doctor and join the military.

 

Sherlock didn’t realize he was waiting for someone like John until after he’d met him.

 

John waited far too long in his bedsit to meet Sherlock, a man he didn’t know he had been waiting to meet.

 

Sherlock waited for John to reject him, his personality, his livelihood, his deductions, but John didn’t.

 

John waited for Sherlock to get bored with him and move one, but Sherlock didn’t.

 

Sherlock waited far too long to jump. The plan almost didn’t work.

 

John waited for ten seconds with his fingertips on Sherlock’s wrist before he had to admit to himself there was no pulse.

 

Sherlock waited over two years to get back to John.

 

John waited a year and a half for Sherlock to return, and then gave up.

 

Sherlock waited for the engagement to end. It never did. He waited for the marriage to end, too. He waited three years, four months, two weeks, and six days, and then it finally ended.

 

John waited two months after the divorce for Sherlock to call him. He never did.

 

Sherlock waited two months after the divorce for John to arrive back at Baker Street. He never did

 

John waited another two weeks, then hailed a cab to Baker Street. He waited for twenty minutes before ringing the bell, and another twenty before it was answered.

 

Sherlock waited for John to do anything. For a long time, he didn’t.

 

John waited for Sherlock to say something. He never did.

 

Sherlock waited for six months once John had returned to Baker Street before John did something.

 

John decided he was tired of waiting, hauled Sherlock down by the lapels, and snogged him.

 

Sherlock waited for half a second for John to recoil. He didn’t.

 

They waited all of two weeks before they had sex for the first time together.

 

John waited anxiously for an incredible and undefinable amount of time for Sherlock to get bored of him. He never did, and John slowly stopped waiting.

 

Sherlock waited anxiously for an incredible and undefinable amount of time for John to realize he wasn’t worth all the trouble and leave. He never did, and Sherlock slowly stopped waiting.

 

They waited until the next case to come out publicly as a couple.

 

(It made it all the better when Lestrade confessed he’d waited since they first met for this day.)

 

John waited three months until he worked up the nerve to buy a ring. Then, he waited another two months until he had worked up the nerve to actually use it.

 

Sherlock deduced it before it really happened. In the end, he waited two months, one week, and four days before John invited him to Angelo’s after his shift. He waited twelve minutes for John to arrive, thirty seconds for John to ask for a candle, five minutes to order, and ten minutes before John straightened in his seat and pulled out a ring box.

“I’ve waited a long time to do this. I- you’re the most important person in my life, full stop, and I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of my life than with you. So, Sherlock Holmes, will you—”

“Yes.”

“You could at least wait until I’ve finished, you berk.”

“I’ve waited my entire life for this, John, literally.”

“And you couldn’t wait two more words?”

“No.”

John chuckled. “Jesus, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, John.”

And suddenly, it seemed entirely unreasonable for them to wait until the end of dinner to get home.


	25. X- XOXO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OOC Crack!fic (ish) drabble! enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of them are written now. Christmas Day fics have been scheduled.

Sherlock ventured into his room. John was working a shift at the surgery, and he was bored. Hadn’t he stored an on-hold experiment in his closet? He hadn’t been to his room much lately—they shared John’s bedroom, and he’d had several cases on. He went to check, but something else caught his eye. On the bed, below where his pillow used to be, was a small red box.

He walked over and picked it up. The tag said only “XOXO.” Perhaps Molly had dropped something by and John had left it on his bed? He examined the box. Small, cubical, glossy red cardboard with a lift-off lid. He took the lid off and was about to discard it when he saw the little sticky note inside. He peeled it off and held it up to read.

 

_Sherlock-_

_Christ, I feel like a teenager. Just, I try not to do the emotions thing too much, because it makes both of us uncomfortable, so I thought maybe this might be better. Anyway, if it’s a no, just don’t say anything. You’ll want to, but don’t. Just leave it on your bed, and we can forget about it. If it’s a yes, well, I haven’t gotten that far._

_(Also, sorry about the box and card, it’s one of Molly’s old gift wrappings.)_

_-John_

 

Sherlock pulled out the small box inside the larger one and swallowed. It was a jewelry box. Specifically, a ring box. He opened it, and although he expected it, couldn’t help the breathy inhale he subconsciously took. He pulled the ring delicately out of its casing. It was a simple black steel band, and it was perfect. John was perfect. Sherlock wished John was here so he could snog him immediately. He slipped the ring on—perfect: it fit perfectly, it looked perfect—and took out his phone.

_Come home at once if convenient. –SH_

_If inconvenient come as well. -SH_

~

John had been subconsciously checking his phone all day. He was distracted constantly, wondering if Sherlock had found the box. Shit, maybe he should’ve just proposed like a normal bloke. He checked his phone again and decided that if Sherlock hadn’t found the box when he got home, he would go get it and propose normally.

Then his phone buzzed.

He read the messages, and buzzed the intercom.

“Sarah? Yeah, a bit of an emergency’s come up. I’ve got to dash. Can you get someone to cover for me?”

Three minutes later, he was in a cab, barreling towards Sherlock.

~

No text yet from John. Sherlock sighed and twisted the ring on his finger. It was proving a useful strategy for fidgeting while thinking—just another perk.

The door slammed and John called something, but Sherlock didn’t hear. Instead, he was at the door in an instant, cupping John’s face and kissing him. John leaned into the kiss, moving up so Sherlock didn’t have to bend as much. After a moment, he pulled away, stunned.

“Sherlock, I thought there was a case. What’s—” He noticed that there was a piece of cool metal being pressed into his jaw and cut himself off.

“You didn’t think there was a case,” Sherlock said.

John drew Sherlock’s left hand away and held it in front of himself. He stared at the ring there for a moment, then looked back at Sherlock.

“So, it’s a yes?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock leaned down to nip at John’s jaw and John gasped. “It was rather tedious, you know.”

“Hm?” He was only half-listening as Sherlock mouthed down his throat.

“You didn’t say what to do for a yes. I had to call you all the way home to snog you. Horribly tedious.”

John grinned. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” Sherlock unbuttoned the top three buttons of John’s shirt before pushing his jacket off. It fell to the floor, and neither cared.

“I don’t feel sorry either,” John said, breaking free to lead Sherlock to their room. “Not if it lead to this.”

“Would’ve lead to this either way,” Sherlock grumbled half-heartedly as he let John lead him up the stairs.


	26. Y- Yule

John had annoying habit of following all Christmas traditions. All of them—Christmas tree, lights, stockings, Christmas music, tinsel, and general festivities and joy. For God’s sake, he’d even joked about a yule log.

But the one that Sherlock dreaded the most happened to be hanging in their doorway: mistletoe.

He’d been dancing around it for days, literally. It was right in the doorway, and very irritating to get around if they were both returning home at the same time. He assumed it was up so John could play schoolboy with his girlfriend the night of their Christmas party, and it was unlikely John would notice or take it upon himself to uphold the tradition if they found themselves under it, but he wasn’t taking any chances. If such a thing happened, and John decided to kiss him as a bit of a joke, it’d be utterly impossible to hide his feelings in any degree.

So he avoided the mistletoe, because that couldn’t happen.

But even Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes, and this happens to be one of them.

~

John had dragged him shopping under the premise that they were going to Bart’s. Once he realized the farce, Sherlock pouted the whole way there, and once they arrived spent his time in the household cleaners, finding John at the end of the trip and dumping his smaller basket of items—bleach, soaps, sprays—into John’s cart.

“We’re not getting all of this,” John said, and started loading the foodstuffs onto the conveyor.

“Why not?” Sherlock added a bottle of bleach and John put it back.

“Because you’ve already got four experiments going and six cold cases on the table. You’ve got plenty to do.”

“But John, these will help test a very important hypothesis for the scientific world.”

“And what’s that?”

“The true expiration dates of household cleaners given the half-lives of different enzymes found in them.”

John laughed. “Oh yeah, I’m sure there’s a staggering need for that.”

“John—”

“No. Put it back.” He thrust the cart, now containing only Sherlock’s goods, towards him and moved to pay.

Sherlock grumbled and went to toss the cart in the cleaning section. If he hadn’t trudged back, he might’ve heard John’s exchange with the cashier, which went a bit like this:

_“Oh, my husband’s always doing the same. Dumping all kinds of rubbish in the cart and saying it’s important.”_

_“Well, I suppose it’s my fault, for dragging him along. He hates shopping.”_

_“I can see. So, how long have you too been together?”_

_John chuckled, a bit sadly. “We’re not. I wish, but no.”_

_“Oh? I’m sorry. You two’d make a great couple.”_

_“So I’ve heard.”_

 

They were both in a strop on the way back for different reasons. But despite that, John still made Sherlock carry groceries from the cab up to the flat, and Sherlock complied with a bit of fuss. He was so preoccupied with his petulance that he didn’t realize they were both going up the stairs at the same rate until it was too late. He was almost through the doorway when John grabbed his coat sleeve and tugged. Sherlock turned, and John was standing, under the mistletoe, a shy grin on his face. He raised his eyebrows and pointed with one finger.

“Mistletoe.”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. _Shit._ “We have frozens, John.”

“They can wait a few seconds.” Sherlock reluctantly let John drag him back a few inches so they were face-to-face, close, very, very close.

And John kissed him.

He leaned up on his toes and placed a light little kiss on Sherlock’s lips, and then it was over. He went into the flat with his bags and left Sherlock frozen, floundering over what to do.

In the end, it was nothing.

He dropped the bags on the counter, and John made tea, and the rest of the day went about as usual. And Sherlock lay in bed that night, more frightened than he’d been in a long time, and John did the same, berating himself for both doing what he had and not doing more.

~

It happened again, as if the universe was giving them a second chance.

They had just finished a case, both grinning with the post-adrenaline haze, and John was ready for tea and Sherlock was ready to drink John’s tea, and they ended up in the doorway again, both slightly out of breath and smiling.

“Mistletoe,” John said.

“Indeed.”

And this time, the second time around, Sherlock saw John’s pupils dilate and he was conscious enough to take note of his racing pulse _(factor out the adrenaline, average bpm, yes, racing)_ , and he leaned down as John leaned up and their lips met perfectly. This time, it was not a shy, light press, but longer, deeper, and entirely indecent for the top of the stairs.

Both were a bit incredulous, and a bit wary, but also a bit dazed and willing to run with this as far as it would go, so they ventured inside the flat, still kissing. Sherlock dropped his coat and John his, and someone unwound Sherlock’s scarf, and then they were on the couch, somehow, with Sherlock more or less on top of John, who’s lying down. And now, without bulky layers of wool or leather or clear thought in the way, hands reached for jaws and chests and hips because this might not happen again, ever.

Eventually, it was John that lowered the pace. As much as he wanted to take Sherlock to bed right now, he wanted more to pause, check, and if need be, stop and forget. So he gradually made their kisses slower and calmer until he could stop and look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock looked back with rumpled curls and bruised lips and eyes nearly black, and John sighed a little bittersweet sigh.

“Is this alright?” he asked.

“Define this.” Sherlock looked away and one hand began tracing the line of John’s arm.

“Christ, I don’t know. Kissing, for starters. Is kissing alright?”

“I believe I’ve given you ample evidence of my answer.”

“Sherlock, be serious, please.”

“I am being serious.”

“Act like it.”

“Fine. Yes, kissing is alright.”

“Okay. So, do you want to keep it at kissing, or—”

“I was rather hoping we would move _this_ to the bedroom at some point.” The hand climbed over John’s shoulder.

“Yes, alright, but that’s not what I’m asking. Do you want some sort of friends-with-benefits thing, or—if this is an experiment, I swear to God—”

“It’s not an experiment. You’ll have to remember, John, I’m not good at social queues, and even less so at relationships.”

“A relationship, then?”

“With endearments? And sappy declarations of love? And joint gifts and quotes about love on the wall?”

“Christ, no. Disgusting; I know you’d hate stuff like that.”

“What’s the difference, then? Between friends-with-benefits and a _relationship_?”

John noticed the hand had stopped its movements. “Well, exclusivity, mostly.”

“I doubt you’ll be quick to find anyone who’ll date me, other than you, perhaps.”

John almost laughed, but realized how much sadness was packed into that sentence and brushed a thumb over the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Also, there’s usually feelings in a relationship.”

“Like, love-feelings.”

“Yes. And I know how you feel about that.”

“Well, perhaps—” Sherlock glanced at John and then back away. “Perhaps my opinions have been altered as of late.”

John sighed, squeezed his eyes shut, and reopened them. This time, when he spoke, it wasn’t the whispered tenderness that had resided over the conversation leading up to that point. His voice was clear, almost demanding, but still kind.

“Alright. I know this is tough for you, and it is for me too, but we can make this a lot easier. Do you want friends-with-benefits, with our relationship continuing as is, but with emotionless sex; do you want a relationship, where we may share a bedroom but not gifts, and admit that there are ‘love-feelings;’ or do you want to forget this as a mistake? Don’t be so cryptic, just answer.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He still had questions. Many, many questions, but John asked him simply what he wanted. So he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and answered.

“Relationship.”

He risked a glance back over, and John was grinning. He was grinning the grin that he saved for Sherlock’s best deductions, when he looked at him with awe and amazement and what Sherlock could now distinguish as love. And as soon as he had finished the thought, John had pulled him back in for a long kiss, and Sherlock had never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so imagine the flat all done up for Christmas  
> The tree, the lights, everything  
> John’s in his Christmas jumper and Sherlock is wearing the purple shirt of sex  
> Now imagine them snogging on the couch in unadulterated loving glee, unable to keep smiles of their faces, while the Christmas lights twinkle around them  
> Ok that is all


	27. Z- Zenith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen John persuades teen Sherlock to go hiking/bouldering with him.  
> drabble!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve no idea if there are bouldering places in the woods in Britain. Imagine there are.

This was all John’s stupid, stupid idea.

They were in the woods, and it was hot, and bugs kept flying in his ear. The only saving grace of the entire excursion was how happy John looked. He was a bit ahead of Sherlock, in his trainers and awful cargos and a form-fitting tee-shirt, and kept turning back with a grin on his face, assuring Sherlock it was just a bit farther.

“What the Hell is ‘it’?” Sherlock asked for the tenth time.

“You’ll see!”

Sherlock didn’t. They finally reached the end of the trail, and the flattened dirt grew from a one-person path to a clearing full of huge boulders.

John turned around, grinning, and spread his arms. “See?”

“No.”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s a bouldering spot!”

“A what?”

John walked over to Sherlock, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him from the shady path to the sunlight. “Make a deduction.”

“Something about boulders?”

“No shit. Come on, I’ll show you.” He dragged Sherlock over to a small boulder and arranged him so he was barely squatting, with both arms raised at an angle. “There. That’s called spotting. Catch me if I fall.”

“This seems dreadfully unsafe.”

“’S really not,” John said, wedging one shoe into a crevice and grabbing a tiny outcropping with the opposite hand. Before Sherlock knew it, John was sitting at the top of the boulder, his feet about four feet off the ground, grinning madly. “See? Perfectly safe.”

“Perfectly mad, more like,” Sherlock said.

“Oi, shut up.” John hopped down and brought Sherlock over to another, taller boulder. “Let’s climb this one together. Not strictly regulation, but you’ll be fine, and I’m more or less an expert.”

+++

Sherlock lowered himself to sit beside John. “So? Now we’re just on top of the rock. What’s the big deal?”

“It just is,” John said, swinging his feet. They were over ten feet off the ground, by Sherlock’s judgements. Everything seemed smaller. It was sort of nice.

It got a hell of a lot nicer when John moved his hand over Sherlock’s.

“Now, don’t fall off the boulder or anything,” John chuckled.

Sherlock smiled. “Endeavoring not to.”

“Shut up,” John said, and kissed him.

That time, Sherlock had to lean into John so that he didn’t fall off.

John couldn’t say he minded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that’s it  
> that’s all 26  
> you’ll all welcome because it is evidence that you all liked them  
> let me tell you, they were way harder than you’d expect to write  
> but still, I’m proud. Are you proud that you’ve read __ words in a month? Be proud. It’s probably above average.  
> Happy December 25, because no matter what you celebrate, you should have a good day.


End file.
